Mathias Énard - Street of Thieves

I was so stunned that I searched my memory for this meeting in Casablanca, though without success. But still I apologized for this misunderstanding; I said I had become afraid after the attack in Marrakesh and the fire.

The Sheikh swept it all aside with a motion of his hand.

I realized I wouldn’t learn any more.

I asked Bassam where he had been this whole time; he looked at me with empty eyes, his blind man’s eyes, his dog’s eyes. It was Nureddin who answered for him: he was with me, completing his training.

Bassam nodded.

Then the Sheikh invited us out to lunch at a Lebanese restaurant near University Square. Bassam followed. He was a phantom — maybe he’s exhausted from jet lag, I thought.

He perked up again at the sight of food: at least he hadn’t lost his appetite, that reassured me. He wolfed down a plate of hummus, a salad, and three skewers of meat as if his life depended on it; a vague smile played over his face between mouthfuls.

During the meal, we mostly discussed politics, as was usual, during the days of the Group; a victory for Islam at the elections in Tunisia and Egypt was excellent news; in Syria, he foresaw a defeat of the regime in a little while, inshallah, after a bloody war. Curiously, he didn’t talk about Morocco, as if that terrain had ceased to interest him. I asked him what brought him to Spain — nothing special, he replied. A meeting of charity associations, donors. A gala dinner. In a luxury hotel. With some soccer players from Barça. At the invitation of the Queen of Spain.

I couldn’t believe my ears. Nureddin in a fancy hotel with princes for a charity event.

The foundation I’m working for now runs all kinds of activities, he added, smiling.

I asked Bassam how long he thought he would stay; he shook himself, as if my question surprised him, before replying I don’t know, a few days at least.

That was good news.

Iconvinced Bassam to leave his hotel and move back with me to the Street of Thieves — he’d gain in friendship what he’d lose in comfort. Sheikh Nureddin encouraged him, it’s better to discover a city with its inhabitants, he said, laughing. I found it hard to imagine that he would be in the midst of a crowd of nobility and gentry in elegant salons that very night, glass of orange juice in hand, shaking hands with all those Bourbon-Parmas — him, the beater-up of miscreants, the man who fired us up and urged us to revolt, was perhaps going to dine at the same table as Juan Carlos, the one all the papers were talking about: the King had recently distinguished himself on an elephant safari, in Africa, and photos of the monarch in the company of a dead pachyderm had made the rounds online — it reminded me of Casanova’s Memoirs, from another era. As if monarchies could never rid themselves of violence and cruelty; Fate pushed them to it: in his youth, Juan Carlos had accidentally killed his brother with a gun; his grandson had just accidentally shot himself in the foot; an entire regiment of dead elephants bore witness to the royal passion for firearms. At least the King of Morocco next door had the merit of discretion.

I wondered what the reason was for Nureddin’s trip from the Persian Gulf to this gala dinner straight out of the eighteenth century, but I didn’t dare ask him.

He had brought me Bassam, and that was enough for me.

We decided to walk around a little before going back to Carrer Robadors, Bassam seemed to have emerged from his torpor and opened his eyes wide upon discovering the city he’d been dreaming about for so long, poor guy, muttering Fuck, fuck, in front of the luxury shops, the avenues, the buildings; he turned around to look at the girls on bikes whose skirts lifted up as they pedaled, at the mannequins in the shop windows, at the heavily made-up passersby, lifted his face to the modernist office buildings, shook himself incredulously faced with all this luxury and liberty, it was good to see, I almost forgot about Judit’s illness, as Bassam communicated his childlike enthusiasm to me as he’d done before, he kept exclaiming wow, insane, will you look at her, what a knockout, my God what a fucking knockout, it’s just insane, and I’d reply that’s nothing, you haven’t seen anything yet, pal, you haven’t seen anything, wait, wait. We happily went up Rambla Catalunya, beneath the trees; I bought him a coffee on a terrace so he could enjoy the girls and the nice spring weather, I felt as if we’d gone backward, to the blessed time of our adolescence, transported in Bassam’s dreams as we contemplated the Strait — he used to talk to me about the lights of Barcelona, the girls of Barcelona, the bars of Barcelona: thanks to his presence I finally felt as if I was there, as if I had arrived somewhere, as if I had finally reached my destination. He kept cracking up in delight on his own like a kid, and it was a real joy to see his big fat bearded yokel’s head smiling at the world.

“So my friend, where were you, all this time? What’s the story with those lousy emails you sent me?”

“What? Whoa, take a look at that rack. Nothing, I was out East, with Nureddin.”

“But why did you disappear like that? What the hell were you doing in Marrakesh?”

“In Marrakesh? In Casa, you mean? Check out those legs, they’re incredible.”

“No, in Marrakesh, you remember, the day of the attack? Judit saw you over there.”

“The Marrakesh attack, yes of course I remember. I don’t know anymore, I think we were on our way south.”

Impossible to tear him away from his urban contemplation. Too bad, we’d talk about it later.

We headed off for the lower part of the city, and a bit further on Bassam pulled up short opposite the display window for an art gallery, in front of an immense photograph that measured two meters by three: a strange scene, eight people behind a table loaded with empty cans of beer, drained glasses, bottles of wine, leftovers, dirty bowls and spoons, crumpled wrappers, bottles of spirits, containers of fruit juice, ashtrays overflowing with butts and burnt matches: two girls in bras standing, holding joints; three guys with bare chests, one of them very hairy, in the background, who had climbed up on chairs, the picture cut off at his shoulders; a pensive bearded guy, on the right, with a cigarette, his head turned to the others, absorbed in contemplation of the disaster, and opposite him, at the left edge, a naked guy smiling at the camera, hat on his head, while at his side an elegant couple — jacket, light-colored shirt, black cardigan for the woman — seemed so drunk that they had to support each other, shoulder to shoulder, like the junkies on the Street of Thieves. In the back on the left, a window showed a glimpse of an orangey glow, an apocalyptic lighting, you couldn’t tell if it came from a sunset, a sunrise, or a light bulb in the stairwell. The whole group, in these giant proportions, gave off an extraordinary force; a movement rose diagonally from the smile of the guy in the hat to the hairy chest in the opposite corner; the hairs shone on the yellowish skins, the red cans of beer exploded on the table; the girls in lacy bras had rolls of flesh, tired faces, heavy breasts; the well-dressed woman was closing her wrinkled eyes, her long, dirty-blonde hair spilled onto the filth on the table, into the tobacco ash, old fries, wine stains.

Bassam was very close to the image, he looked at each of these characters and then shook his head incredulously, muttering; he stepped back to look at the entire photo and turned to me, questioningly — he asked with an air of disgust, what is this? An ad? I replied, laughing, I don’t think so, it’s art, my friend. Bassam wasn’t laughing, he seemed frightened, he said to me Lakhdar if you stay here you’ll end up like that, like them, that made me laugh even harder, I said Bassam you’re completely crazy, but he said don’t you see, it’s a parody of the Sura of the Laden Table, O God Our Lord, said Issa, son of Maryam, make a laden table come down from heaven that will be a celebration, for the first of us as well as for the last, it’s a disgrace. He looked completely serious, frightened and angry at the same time.