Mohammed Achaari - The Arch and the Butterfly

‘In that case,’ said Yacine, ‘the inhabitants of Rabat won’t need to go to Marrakech in pursuit of a fleeting moment of freedom.’

‘Not to Marrakech or Casablanca. We’ll put a final stop to Ibrahim al-Khayati’s claim that having dinner in Rabat is like having dinner at a bus station.’

‘But all the inhabitants of Rabat — I mean the rich ones — have bought houses in Marrakech,’ remarked Yacine.

‘They will sell them when they receive orders to move straight back to the capital.’

‘Even that is by order!’ Yacine exclaimed.

‘Yes. And all the gossip will also be instructed to migrate to the capital.’

‘Never. That’s impossible. Marrakech couldn’t survive without gossip. You know what? I had a friend in Paris who said that once the tales of Jemaa al-Fnaa had almost faded into oblivion, Marrakech devised modern stories, a kind of One Thousand and One Nights played out in sports centres, nightclubs and discos. So with or without orders, Marrakech will never relinquish her throne, even if you were to rebuild Baghdad on the bank of the river!’

‘I didn’t know you were such a fanatic.’

‘Between you and me,’ he said, ‘Rabat is nothing but an old Andalusian hag, extremely fair skinned but sagging. No amount of embellishment can help her.’

‘Do you hate her so much?’

‘I neither love her nor hate her. I only find her “forward”, as my mother would say.’

‘As for me,’ I explained, ‘I find her fascinating, mysterious and dreamy, and she also has a river. I don’t like cities without rivers, as if they were cities that don’t cry. I don’t like Marrakech: always acting like a child and laughing for no reason!’

‘Shame! How can a writer dislike Marrakech?’ wondered Yacine.

‘Guess what? The writer Abu Idris has a theory on the subject. He says that Marrakech is anti-writing, that she’s a city for old people.’

‘I’m going to tell you something that might upset you,’ said Yacine.

‘Say it, anyway.’

‘It seems to me that you’ve changed for the worse.’

‘What does that mean?’ I asked.

‘It means you’re brimming with a harsh bitterness. You’re not fooled by any of life’s tricks any more. Don’t you expect anything miraculous? How can you bear life in such clarity?’

‘I don’t make any special effort. It’s life that puts up with me!’ I said.

‘But you’ve always lived with troubles, doubts, mistakes and blind conviction. I mean, weren’t all those things just masks?’

‘Yes, most of the time. Back then, I believed we had to resist despair by any means.’

‘And now?’ he asked.

‘Now, to some extent, I’ve become reconciled to despair. Those who have boundless hopes make me more despairing than those in despair.’

‘It seems like I’ll never understand you,’ said Yacine.

‘No one can understand anyone,’ I replied.

At that moment, Layla arrived, her voice preceding her physical presence.

‘It looks like you’re talking to yourself!’ she said.

‘No, I was talking to Yacine!’

Her face darkened and she mumbled, ‘I’m sorry for interrupting you.’

She sat facing me. We looked at each other as if waiting for Yacine to leave. Once he had left, Layla began talking on the phone. I studied her face as she gave curt answers to end the conversation. Her whole face beamed with an inward smile, causing me unbearable pain because I would be unable to make her feel that way. Perhaps that pain cast its shadows over my gaze, for she asked me anxiously, ‘What’s wrong? Is everything all right?’

‘Yes, almost everything.’

Then I talked to her about the inner smile, and we came up with an amusing theory about having to create a sort of sieve in our internal spiritual space to sift the necessary in life (even if painful) from the useless (even if highly tempting). This process of sifting was the most eloquent expression of our balance, our strength and our mental and physical health. Without consulting us or even our being aware, our ultimate gratification, our most refined pleasure and our secret chemistry produced this inner smile. As the product of this marvellous sieve, this smile would be an aura around our bodies and souls, granting us luminous protection and invincibility in the face of life’s obstacles.

We talked at length about this subject in a kind of race for words and thoughts. We hardly knew who was saying what. Layla was directing this exercise in order to make me feel the need to arrange a space I controlled all by myself, without leaving any margin, however small, for others’ interference. That space, like the living space of any creature in this world, would allow me to differentiate between need and desire, because, according to Layla, the matter depended on this particular capacity.

‘Look at yourself,’ she told me. ‘You’re a perfectly healthy machine! All the mechanisms necessary for you to function are working. There’s nothing wrong with any of your systems, yet you’ve broken down and are in paralysis.’

We also talked about Bahia. I gave her an idea of our situation following Yacine’s death. I told her that deep down Bahia considered me responsible for what had happened and hated me for it. I hated her, too, for thinking that. Bahia believed Yacine had inherited the germ of rebellion from me and paid the price vicariously for my own political involvement and my neglect of the organisation. She would have preferred to see me settle this account personally, rather than making Yacine believe in my dreams, only to then find himself obliged to save me from the humiliation of my dreams’ disintegration by convincing me that extremism was the solution and that getting into bed with the enemy was not an option.

‘My God, it really is complicated!’ said Layla. ‘How is it possible to think like that? Life isn’t a succession of acts of revenge and the settling of scores. No generation can live the illusions of another generation. Plus, in the end, Yacine isn’t the tragic hero his mother claims. He’s just an extremist who met his death. And with the Taliban to top it off!’

Hurt, I said to her, ‘Please. Don’t talk about him like that.’

She squeezed my hand in apology, and looked closely into my eyes. ‘This relationship will destroy you — if it didn’t do so already ages ago. Save your skin! You can’t stake what’s left of your life on reckless hatred. Do you understand?’

To qualify matters, I said, ‘No, no, no. It is not as dangerous as all that. I’m at sufficient remove from all those things. The hatred I talked to you about doesn’t touch me from within. To tell you the truth, I’m not interested in what’s happening, or what will or won’t ever happen. I live totally detached from those things, even when I say that I hate her. I’m only using a word that suits the situation but does not express something I feel.’ I then seized this opportunity to tell Layla that I felt nothing, absolutely nothing.

She fell silent for a short while and then suggested we go to a Japanese restaurant. I agreed immediately. There, using a plate of sushi, I was able to explain what I meant. Raw flesh in particular eloquently embodied my non-feeling for things. Raw meat did not suggest food with a fabricated identity, but rather was an authentic food in its primitive form, before culture interfered to suggest it be used in a certain way and with accompanying substances. Cooked dishes were, first and foremost, a creation of scent. Raw dishes, however, were a liberation from history for the benefit of the ingredient. As a result, eating became a relationship with elements that were independent of each other, and not a relationship with flavour, as centuries of culture’s trickery had made it.