Mohammed Achaari - The Arch and the Butterfly

My heart pounded when she talked about love, like a teenager thinking about it for the first time. It was the way I had felt when I regained my sense of smell, my face buried in Yacine’s shirt. I had the impression that Layla was pouring over me all at once, as if she were water that had been dammed for a long time behind a huge boulder, but had finally managed to displace the boulder and come streaming over me. I had no choice but to put myself at the mercy of the raging water and let it carry me, not knowing where I would surface or go under as I released myself from time, since time was condensed in this torrent.

That evening as we were leaving Layla’s house I told her that I loved her. She said simply, ‘I know.’

Quite disappointed, I said, ‘But I never told you that before.’

She insisted, ‘Yes you did. A million times without uttering the words.’

‘No, no, no,’ I said. ‘There’s a terrible misunderstanding here. The feeling itself, I mean the feeling of love, never occurred to me. You know, I felt that the person I am, who does not experience the feeling of love, does, in fact, love you. But this feeling was nothing but a cold awareness. It has nothing to do with what I feel today.’

We got into the car, and when I started speaking again, she stopped me and said that the subject did not interest her at all. She then took my hand, placed it on her chest and said that she wanted to sleep a little while I drove to the Japanese restaurant. Then she said, ‘Look how beautiful the sky is, the clouds, the melting colours. And the light, oh my God, do you see the light?’

‘I do, I do.’

‘It’s a sky just for us.’

I laughed, surprised, but she insisted, saying, ‘Really, it’s a sky for us. Every time we make love, it gives us this gift.’

I drove in silence while she held my hand and I felt her breathing. When I stopped near our restaurant, Layla was fast asleep. I switched off our mobiles and lay down without removing my hand, unconcerned by the curiosity of the passers-by.

Layla had told me many times that all her life she had looked for an easy-going man and that I could be that man. I attributed that to my total inability to ask her for anything. And the pain I had endured liberated me from many aspects of myself without my planning it or making an exceptional effort to that end. Therefore I began watching what was happening to me as if it were happening to somebody else. This distance gave me the capacity to act with a satisfying generosity that I did not clearly understand until I sensed its delightful impact on my surroundings.

Layla, however, understood everything. She knew how I worked and exactly what my weaknesses were. She knew that at a certain moment in my journey, which resembled the steps of an acrobat, there would be a momentary loss of balance that could push me into a precipitous fall. She was very concerned that this moment would take me by surprise in a dangerous place or that my fall would dent my dignity. I, on the other hand, dreaded having one of my fits while with her. I didn’t care at all whether it happened on the train or in the street. But not with her. Then one day it happened. I begged her to keep talking to me, not about anything in particular, but with unchecked words as if I would breathe with those words. She did that with amazing skill, as if she had trained for it for years. After that I never needed to suggest to her what she had to do. She would know the fit was approaching before I felt it myself. She would take my hand and help me get over the dark moments, as if leading me to a comfortable chair.

Layla also knew that I loved her and clutched her back from the talons of savage loss. I ran after her absent face in details that happened in my life, or did not happen. She became an unalloyed possibility from the first day. She was always possible, and if she did not materialise at a specific moment, it was not because she was not there but because the moment was not the one, and now she was at an infinite moment and so was I. There was a desert that I had to cross, and I knew that paradise was at a certain turn in this immensity. She knew that, too, and responded to every situation that upset us by saying, ‘It’s a matter that does not concern us, it’s happening to other people.’ In so doing she borrowed an image that she knew represented precisely my relationship with the world.

We received our apartments the same week. But I spent a whole week getting rid of my belongings in my old home. I had told Layla that this apartment would be meaningless if I did not use it to fulfil a wish going back to my adolescence of an empty white house with hardly any internal walls. And so it was. One of Ahmad’s contractors helped me realise my dream.

I reserved the space for the bedroom and the bathroom and left all the rest open with a huge balcony that ran along the side that faced west. The kitchen was on the right from the entrance, and the remaining space extended to the blueness of the ocean. All this white expanse would be filled with nothing but white curtains, a large low black table, and four white poufs for sitting on. In the kitchen I placed all the utensils in a wooden black frame made to measure, which turned them into a neutral barrier that did not disrupt the sense of emptiness. I had a single bookcase with very few books that I had kept from my desert days, which I put in the kitchen out of a conviction that books belonged to the realm of spices, oils and preserves. In the lower drawers of the kitchen I stashed the documents and photos that I did not have the courage to burn. Two days before I moved into my new apartment I sold all my paintings, taking advantage of the huge rise in their value, and I donated my library to an association in the Yacoub El Mansour district in Rabat. I gave my furniture to the first old friend willing to take it. I had a single large key for the apartment made out of pure red copper.

No one liked my home. All my friends found it cold and desolate, and made fun of the minimalist decor. Even Layla said that I had imported Japanese emptiness to a culture that finds itself only in clutter. Despite all that I stood my ground for fear I would relapse if I went back on my decision. I later realised that I mainly used the bedroom, while the white void was inhabited by mysterious souls.

One evening Layla and I were sitting in this spiritual space, taking our time to eat dinner. We could see our shadows, the flame of the candle and the wild fish — as I called Al-Wazzani’s carving standing on the table — reflected in the glass of the balcony, while the sky was still lit by a soft sunset. I was coming and going to the kitchen without interrupting my conversation with Layla or going out of sight. She found this situation practical and appreciated having the whole kitchen open to the living room.

‘The surprise comes in how the food tastes, nothing else,’ she said. ‘I saw from the start that you were preparing fish, but that only doubled the surprise of tasting the tang of saffron in the slices of sea bream. Both the place and the meal will forever remain two sides of a single coin. The relationship between places and tastes is truly amazing.’

When the horizon turned totally dark, Layla asked me to draw the curtains because she always imagined that someone was watching us. I did as she asked, knowing that the flowing white drapes would give the glass façade a cottony dimension that would totally change the sensation of the inner space. As soon as the lights of the city disappeared and the white drapes fell over the transparency of the glass, something blossomed in the ambiance. The light and the emptiness became like a mad wind playing in the mind and planting a fiery desire in everything. Layla said that if she had not been so shy, she would have walked around naked in the space.