Mohammed Achaari - The Arch and the Butterfly

As we were eating breakfast the next day Layla said, ‘You must visit Bahia as soon as possible. It isn’t Ahmad Majd who will make her feel at peace.’

‘No one can do anything for anyone else,’ I said.

‘I don’t like to begin the day in a bad mood,’ she said angrily.

Whenever I travelled from Rabat to Marrakech, I would look out the train window and see places I had known for years, barren fields, square patches of cacti and a scattering of withered eucalyptus trees. Nothing had changed in these poor landscapes, where every now and then I would spot somebody crossing these badlands with the assurance of someone living in paradise. One day the motorway would pass through that arid poetry, and we would have to draw another landscape to put in train windows. The motorway would extend all the way to Agadir, and the journey from there to Tangier would take only eight hours instead of the two days it did before. We would become a small country that could be crossed from north to south in less than a day.

Bahia quietly greeted me when I arrived. She did not look like she was suffering from a fatal illness or the devastating anxiety linked to it. We sat in the garden and she talked to me with amazement about the war waging between her husband and his rival. The latest chapter involved land that was open for development on the mountain road, land that was on the books as security at one of the banks before the ferocious rival got hold of it through scary pressure tactics, fraud and byzantine manoeuvres.

Bahia knew the tiniest details of what she called the new scandal. She was trying to deduce what should be deduced, in the form of a pessimistic analysis of our general condition, which did not seem about to be cured of rampant illnesses like those.

I said, joking, ‘But the wheels are turning, or so I believe. There are no breakdowns, and I only hear stories about the huge fortunes being made here and there. I have not heard so far about a bankruptcy declared or about to be declared.’

‘Bankruptcy is like a terrorist operation,’ Bahia said. ‘Nothing on the horizon predicts it, and then suddenly you hear about it on the news.’

She asked me if I knew about her illness. I nodded and said, ‘It’s an illness like any other illness.’

She was moved for the first time and talked about young Ghaliya. ‘I don’t worry about leaving her alone, but it hurts not to have spent more time with her.’ She said that she had not noticed any emotional attachment on my part towards the child, and added, ‘You don’t like her very much.’

I defended myself, saying that I considered her our baby, but Bahia was not convinced. But said she understood and did not blame me. Human nature was supremely complex, she said, and oddly enough she did not see any logic in all that was happening to her except her illness, because it was the only thing in total harmony with her human condition.

Bahia confessed, without overdone emotion, that she sat every day in the garden and cried. She did not cry for a specific reason, but out of abstract torment where nothing was obvious except her tears. Every time she asked herself why she cried, she would cry even more without finding an explanation. She added, ‘I did not get the life I dreamed of when I was young.’

‘No one gets the life they dreamed of,’ I said to her.

‘I did not imagine that. I was convinced I would get from life exactly what I dreamed.’

I tried to explain that life was better when it remained capable of surprising us.

She laughed and said, ‘As far as surprises go, I got my share and more. Imagine, I marry someone who loves opera and sculpture, and one day I see him cover the walls of our house with photos of the housing compounds he has built, his inauguration ceremonies and meetings to sign financial agreements.’

Fatima called from Madrid that evening. All I could detect in her conversation were bits of self-pity for her life and convulsive crying that made her sound drunk. I found it in me to ignore her crisis and face it with some firmness.

‘Why this silly crying?’ I said to her. ‘You’re in good health and able to enjoy music, theatre and cinema. You have a job you love and you live in a European capital. You can sleep with any man you choose. What more do you want from life? Do you think that life is as generous with everyone as it is with you?’

My anger calmed her down a little, and I seized the opportunity to tell her about Bahia’s illness. But when I felt she was about to resume her crying fit, I said loudly, ‘I spent part of today with her and she seemed fine, maybe better than us.’

Fatima insisted that I visit her in Madrid. I told her I would because I too needed space to help me reorganise this mess. I had the impression that as we talked about our plan of action, she got completely over her crisis. When we ended our conversation I was still anxious, though, but then came a text message from her: ‘Thank you, I love you.’

I spent the evening in a small Italian restaurant not far from the tombs of the Saadis. The friends I met were very worked up about rumours concerning the arrest of a gang of drug dealers who controlled the city. One of them said that this would certainly lead to the formation of prostitution rings and sex tourism, and many guesthouses might be shut down as a result. Since we were close to the general elections, the only beneficiary from these security measures would be the religious movement. Marrakech, with all its magical treasures, would then fall victim to the pincers of the Taliban.

Another well-informed friend said, however, that big business would be the real beneficiary of the situation, big business organised as a political and social force. It would use the income it provided, the jobs it created, the publicity it produced and the foreigners it pleased as bargaining chips to obtain comfortable seats in the political arena. He said no one could counteract the religious movement except that group. There would be a new leader of this kind in every major city, and if there was not, one would be created, until this blessed commodity became available all over the country.

Someone else suggested handing the major cities to the Islamists as a solution, in order to make peace with the terrorists. I laughed at his suggestion and told him these two options had nothing to do with each other, because terrorism worked for its own account. If the cities were handed over, they would become psychologically devastated, with explosions as their only amusement.

We quickly abandoned this discussion that lowered our spirits and agreed that our country counted among its leaders geniuses who knew how to manage matters without help from our rotten moods. At midnight we timidly went to one of the city’s hotels to see a famous transvestite from Casablanca, who had come to Marrakech to belly dance.

I was awakened the next morning by the sound of Ahmad Majd’s insistent banging at my door. When I opened it I saw his worried expression, and he told me that Bahia’s condition had deteriorated suddenly. He was taking her to Paris.

We all met in the middle of the big house. Bahia was preparing to leave. She was smiling, playing with young Ghaliya and running her fingers through the girl’s hair. I assumed she was in pain, but I did not have the energy to say anything. I took a cup from the table and poured coffee, unaware in my distress that I was spilling it. I heard Ahmad Majd say, ‘We mustn’t be late for the flight.’

I walked them to the door, hoping they would ask me to stay there for a little while. Bahia did, saying as she hugged me that it might be better for young Ghaliya. I returned to the breakfast table and watched Ghaliya spreading butter on a piece of toast, acting like her mother with her hurried movements and small bites. She had Ahmad Majd’s eyes and Yacine’s round face. Her features revealed a certain joy hidden behind a serious expression. I wondered if this would be my last breakfast in the big house, and the thought upset me. I wondered if the feeling of devastation would be the same at the death of a person I had no relationship with any more. I was surprised by a fit of tears I felt rising from my guts. I withdrew to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face, while thinking about a way to breathe outside the big house.