Mohammed Achaari - The Arch and the Butterfly

I told her that it did not matter to me or hurt me. I headed straight out of the garden on to the deserted street on that bizarre Sunday evening. I realised once more that what had happened and the way it had happened, with the words and emotions it had provoked, wouldn’t have happened to me had I left at the right time. Why hadn’t I left every time it had seemed obvious to leave? Why had I squandered so much existence during a quarter of a century of procrastination and waiting?

I walked for a long time and then got on the seven o’clock train to Rabat. As I arrived in the capital, I imagined Ahmad with his short stature sleeping with Bahia and whispering words of love to her in a Marrakech accent. I imagined telling him angrily that even if he stole every woman in the world, he would never get over the humiliation of the woman who dumped him for his lawyer while he was in prison.

I regretted the cruel thoughts, and thanked God that I had not actually said any of it. I read the day’s newspapers before I went up to my apartment, where I slept for a whole day without dreams.

When I woke up I found my voicemail full of anxious messages about my disappearance. I also found text messages from my colleagues at the paper informing me about the recent break up of a sleeper cell. I was reading those messages when another arrived from Fatima asking me to call her. I dialled her number and heard her joyful voice immediately on the line.

‘You sound very happy!’ I said.

‘Not at all. I talked to Ahmad Majd and guess what his comment was on the happy marriage?’ she asked.

‘You’re invited?’

‘No, he said to me: what do you expect me to do? I have devoted my life to correcting the mistakes of the left!’

I told her, ‘I’m afraid that is going to be the last sarcastic sentence he will utter.’

‘Why?’ she asked.

‘Because he’s entering the sea of darkness.’

‘Don’t be a bird of ill omen. Watch out for yourself. Do you have any new information about the cell?’

‘Not yet. I’m meeting my colleagues shortly.’

‘It seems it’s linked to the Madrid group.’

‘We’ll see. I’ll call you later.’

‘Kisses,’ she replied.

On my way to meet colleagues at the Beach restaurant, Yacine nudged me and asked, ‘What happened to you? Where did you disappear?’

‘Do you know that your mother is getting married?’

‘Really?’ he said. ‘Wonders never cease, for the living.’

‘Is this your only reaction to the news?’ I asked.

‘We are not surprised by anything, as you know.’

‘I expected you at least to be embarrassed by what happened!’

‘Listen, death is no joke. We don’t go through all this terror to remain subject to emotions and shyness.’

‘Regardless, I must tell you that the main reason for our divorce and the door being flung wide open to this marriage is you.’

‘I know, but don’t expect me to develop a guilt complex.’

‘You also know, don’t you, that the idea of the new baby is just compensating for you?’

‘No one compensates for anyone. The baby won’t replace me; Ahmad Majd won’t take your place; and no other woman will replace Bahia. Whenever you get attached to human beings, they become an eternal curse, like the colour of your eyes.’

‘I’m surprised to hear you say that,’ I said.

‘Let it go. Can I ask you to do something for me?’

‘Go ahead, ask.’

‘Don’t be harsh with Bahia. She’s a very sad woman.’

I spent the evening with work colleagues at the Beach restaurant, and stayed late talking about terrorism. One of my colleagues remarked that terrorism had truly succeeded when it took up so much of our time. He also said that, in the end, terrorism was one of the dangers of modern life, no less and no more. It claimed far fewer people than traffic accidents, smoking, drugs or illness. Life itself was more fatal than terrorism. We were unnecessarily panicked, he said, and Moroccans in particular were scared of everything.

Some of my other colleagues were convinced that the largest powers would succeed in formulating effective and extremely expensive security policies, leaving only our cities hostage and easy prey for terrorism. Each one of us would then adopt a personal security policy. We would all wear Pakistani clothes and denounce to the sheikhs those who drank alcohol in our buildings and the women who displayed their charms. If one of them wanted to add a young girl from our family to his harem, we would help him fulfil his wish.

‘Everything terrorism does has to do with women,’ Abbas, a colleague, said. ‘Women are terrorism’s only concern.’

‘Everything we do or don’t do is for the sake of women,’ another responded.Gradually the conversation became knotty as it touched on political Islam, its ties to terrorist organisations, and who benefited from whom. The disagreements increased and our voices grew strident, until we suddenly became aware of the silence in the restaurant. Someone said as we were leaving, ‘It’s very late.’

Abbas said loudly as he was opening his car door, ‘Who would like to join me at a last stop?’

‘Have pity on yourself!’ I said.

He replied, with a phrase attributed to Saadi Youssef, ‘The nation is perishing, let’s perish with it.’

On my way back home I called Layla and talked with her at length about people who entered our lives by coincidence, became predatory beings and devoured our existence one portion at a time, while we were unable to stop them.

‘This situation has a clear, precise name. It’s called cowardice,’ Layla said.

‘Not exactly,’ I said, ‘because the victim might be courageous in other situations.’

‘It’s still cowardice, because cowardice also means being selective in your courage. There’s no greater cowardice than not resisting someone who is eating you up.’

‘Well I’m a coward then. That’s all there is to it!’

‘I don’t know why you say that. We’re talking in the absolute,’ Layla said.

When we ended our telephone conversation, I felt oppressed. I wondered why I asked questions that led me to humiliating diagnoses. Why did I insist on going around in circles on the same spot, raising all the dust of the world around me?

When I arrived home I found a voice message from Ahmad telling me, ‘Call me even if you get home at dawn.’ There was another message from Bahia inviting me to have lunch with her any day I liked, and a third message from Layla in which she apologised for having been rude. I only returned Layla’s call to tell her, ‘Yes, very rude.’ As soon as I hung up, she called me back and said, ‘Why don’t you come round?’

I took a quick shower and went to her place.

As I was getting ready to leave her, she said, ‘I want to see you sleeping.’

‘If I stay another minute, I will fall asleep,’ I replied.

She rushed to the alarm clock and set it for five a.m.

‘Why the alarm clock?’ I asked. ‘You’ll wake me up when you’re tired of watching me sleep.’

‘I’ll also go to sleep,’ she said. ‘I want to sense you. I don’t mean watching you asleep. I just want to feel that you’re here and that you’ll fall asleep and wake up like you do normally.’

The alarm clock rang. I got up, dressed and returned home sleepy, half dreaming of Layla standing shivering in front of the lift door, begging me to open my eyes and send her a message as soon as I arrived home.

‘I’ve arrived!’

Ahmad pulled me back out of the clouds of sleep at seven a.m., when he appeared at my door saying, ‘Ghaliya packed her bags and left.’

‘Why did she do that? What happened?’ I asked.