Mathias Énard: Street of Thieves

I didn’t know much about art, but aside from the table, obviously, it was hard to see anything religious in this photo, on the contrary, it was totally decadent, obscene and decadent.

“Come on buddy, you’re raving, let’s go.”

But he couldn’t manage to tear his eyes away from the image; he was staring with hatred at the girls in underwear, the bottles of wine, and the man with the hat — if he could have he would no doubt have broken the window.

“You want us to buy it, is that it? You want me to ask them to make a little copy for your place? Should I take a picture of it with my cell?”

He shot me a furious look, this thing is an offence to God, this country is an offence to God, he raised his eyes to the sky.

“Come on, let’s go.”

I began walking and he ended up following me; he was muttering curses.

I knew where to take him to make it pass away. So much for the risks of shared transport, we took a bus headed for La Barceloneta — when Bassam asked me where we were going, I replied, to Paradise. That didn’t make him laugh at all and he barked, stop with your blasphemies, before returning to that silence of his from the beginning of our afternoon.

When we arrived, he couldn’t hold back a whistle of admiration at the immense sail-shaped hotel, at the edge of the embankment, at the façades glimmering in the sun, and at the cable car that crossed the harbor, off to the right, disappearing in the greenness of the hill of Montjuïc.

“Wait, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

A Saturday, I knew the beach would be swarming with people. I took off my shoes and dragged Bassam toward the sea.

“What the hell are you up to, you’re not going swimming are you?”

I walked straight ahead, in the burning sand; the light was blinding despite the late hour; the sun hadn’t set yet, over there in the west, behind the Street of Thieves. I knew, as I started walking, that I was missing Bassam’s expression and exclamations; the bodies were so close together that we had to set one foot in front of the other to pass between the bare breasts and oiled thighs. I found an open spot, a dozen meters from the water; I threw myself onto the ground. Bassam sat cross-legged, facing the sea; over there’s where the show is, I said. Turn around and look.

I was generously offering him the most beautiful collection of asses on earth. Lying in the same direction, taking advantage of the slight slope of the beach, head facing the top of the slope, in rows, on their stomachs mostly but sometimes on their backs, breasts bare or not, some in thongs, others in modest one-pieces, a whole rainbow of girls unfurled before us — milk-white ones applying sunscreen; pink ones wearing hats to protect their faces; slightly tanned ones, bronze ones, black ones, many shades of ass, the triangular mounds hidden under swimsuits, breasts of all shapes and sizes and colors; I lay down on the sand, hands under my chin: a meter away from me I had, thighs slightly spread on a multicolored towel, a Nordic girl whose round ass was beginning to turn pink past the edges of her suit — you could make out her sex where the material puckered slightly, dented it into waves of softness where there peeked out, at the edge of the cloth, against the flesh, a few tiny blond hairs; her feet were charming, toes buried in the sand; I felt as if my head were between her legs and I wondered if my gaze had any effect on this cunt, so close; if, by staring at it for a long time, I could manage to make it warm, the way the sun sets fire to straw with its rays — with eyeglasses by way of magnifying glass, who knows. The girl from the North scratched her lower back, as if I had disturbed her, and I quickly looked away, by an idiotic reflex — unless Odin had provided his creatures with unheard-of abilities, the single eye that observed me from behind the garnet polyester was blind.

I tore myself away from my contemplation: Bassam was smiling blissfully, still cross-legged, hands on his knees; he swept his eyes across the beach like a spotlight, from one side to the other; skateboarders and bicyclists passed by on the jetty; strolling vendors paced the sand, by the water’s edge, offering beer, soda, henna tattoos, cheap baubles, sunglasses, Barça decals, caps, scarves, beach towels, African gris-gris, doughnuts, foot massages, or all of the above, it was impossible to stay by the sea for over five minutes without someone taking advantage of your immobility to try to sell you something — those hundreds of prone people comprised an infinite reservoir of potential clients stupefied by the sun. Bassam looked at all that, all those asses, all those breasts, all those Senegalese carrying their merchandise, all those neo-hippies passing by on the jetty; on the left, the brilliant colossus of the Hotel Vela protected these people with its glass and steel sail; on the right, at the other edge of the promenade, near the Olympic harbor, a welded metal whale seemed to be melting on the beach, between the Torre Mapfre and the Arts Hotel; in the distance, the chimneys of the Centrale de Badalona were lost in a halo of pollution, behind the sheet of hazy cement of the Forum of Cultures.

Suddenly I thought of Judit, of that tumor, that injustice of the body. This powerlessness was as bitter as Cruz’s poison.

We stayed a long time, absorbed by the beauty of the city, the infinite sea punctuated with white sailboats, until the sun sank behind Montjuïc and the sunbathers got dressed one by one: some just slipped a dress over their swimsuits; others, more elegant, older, or more bourgeois, undertook slow metamorphoses, hidden by a towel; one could take stock of their underwear, held out in a charitable hand by a husband or girlfriend, note their loss of balance as they slipped it on, standing on one leg, strange, clumsy birds clutching a pareo to their chest. A slight breeze had picked up, I told Bassam it was time to get back to the Street of Thieves, on foot this time. He brushed himself to get rid of the sand and began walking, seemed disoriented again — ever since we had arrived he hadn’t said a word, so that I thought he’d fallen asleep, cross-legged, like a Buddha in meditation.

He remained just as silent on the way back; he stared at the asphalt, head lowered, lifting it only to check if I was indeed still next to him.

We entered the Raval by the Arsenal, the gateway to the neighborhood from the sea, before going back up to Sant Pau and La Rambla. Suddenly Bassam seemed more interested; the Pakis were strolling around, in little groups; Arabs were chatting in front of the sandwich joints; children were playing near the giant metal cat, swung disrespectfully from its steel whiskers, tried to ride it like an elephant, perched between its ears. I thought of inviting Bassam for dinner in the Moroccan restaurant on Carrer Robadors, in memory of Tangier and the good old times — but first we had to go upstairs to drop off his bag. He had been lugging it around all afternoon without batting an eye. It was a simple travel bag, canvas with two leather handles; I don’t know why, it made me think again of the attack in Marrakesh, that bag. I realized I didn’t know what Bassam was doing in Barcelona. Or when he would leave. Or even precisely where he was coming from.

At the corner of Robadors, by the Tariq ibn Ziyad mosque, two black whores were perched on parking stanchions; blue faux-leather miniskirts, high heels, bras, breasts almost popping out.

Bassam seemed to walk into an invisible wall when he saw them; he changed sidewalks.

The entrance to our building cracked him up. Say, my friend, some class your hotel has. A real luxury hotel, khouya. Even at our place we don’t have anything this rotten, la samah Allah.

I didn’t take the bait. I just hoped we wouldn’t pass a rat roaming around.