Naja Aidt - Baboon

I bought a red scarf in the bazaar. I looked at the chickens and ducks in small cages awaiting their uncertain fate, most likely to be murdered and roasted, chewed and digested, eventually ending up on the ground or in a porcelain bowl in a completely different state. I drank tea from small decorative glasses. I ate cakes dipped in honey. Then later, at a more refined restaurant, spiced lamb and rice. My hunger was satiated in every way. I climbed the narrow steps, and continued to ascend, while sweat broke out on my back under the thin shirt. I made it all the way up to the enormous mosque that rose in the air in an austere and closed monument, but also as something ethereal and free, and the sight of it made me think of how between the two poles, these two ideals, we seek to unfold our lives. But I have , I thought with a joy verging on euphoria, I have , saying it slowly to myself, united these opposites in an action that has given me both control and freedom . Fascinated to no end by one thing after another: The spicy scent of the flowers and wild herbs growing all over between rocks and asphalt; the men's dark faces and the whites of their eyes that the irises swim in; glimpses of a bare foot or a hand sticking out of a woman's concealing garments; the ancient, thick walls of the buildings. Even the conspicuous poverty moved me because it made me aware of something significant: Life unfolds in different ways, but it's always life; I was in need of such a consolation, partly for personal reasons, because I am not without guilt, but also for the simple reason that those of us who live in extreme wealth fear death and personal decline to an extent that's in sharp contrast to our proven long life span and the multitude of medical advancements and miracles. Such were the thoughts running through my head while I sat, pleasantly exhausted and filled with new impressions, enjoying a drink in a smaller open square in the shadow of a large acacia tree. No breeze stirred. The dull heat of the afternoon vibrated in the air. A couple of children played with marbles. A man was loading vegetables into a pickup. And even though I felt a little like I was being watched since the people higher up could easily see me without me necessarily being able to see them, I felt entirely free of the troubles that I'd been suffering for a long time.

* * *

Back at the hotel I took a cool bath late in the evening, carefully washing the wounds and swellings that I had received over the upper part of my body. I changed the bandages covering the deep gash on my right hand, and then I got dressed. I opened the window and inhaled the scents from the dark night, listening to the cicadas and the exotic sounds from the city, and got a sudden craving for a drink.

The bar was nearly empty, a sleepy waiter was reading the paper and drinking a cup of coffee, a middle-aged woman was sipping her whiskey and smoking a thin cigarette. A young man was sitting at a table lost in thought, staring at the large air conditioner on the ceiling that was humming weakly. I ordered dark rum and sat down at the bar. The woman looked over at me and nodded with a smile, lighting a new cigarette. The waiter poured my rum, put on Frank Sinatra, and began polishing the glasses. The rum was good and strong. And I smiled to myself when Sinatra sang "I did it my way" with his soft, unrelenting voice, and I thought, yes, that's what I'm doing too, that's what I've done, I've taken matters into my own hands, in my own way . There was something comical about it. The whole wretched business. And whether or not the lightly tanned woman with pretty pinned-up hair wearing an elegant short black silk dress had gotten the impression that I had smiled at her, I can't say for sure, but in any case she struck up a conversation with me. She was English and lived in London, or more precisely, Kensington, and had recently lost her husband. She spoke beautiful English and confided in me that she had traveled here to get a change of scenery and to make a fresh start. I understood, it was the same for me — change of scenery, fresh start — and she smiled, relieved, touching her pearls. I said this is usually why people travel to distant places, and she gave a little nervous laugh and stirred the blue plastic stick around in her glass. Then we sat a while in silence, I finished my drink, but when I got up to go, she grabbed my sleeve and looked at me with clear shiny eyes. "Sometimes my husband was a real bastard to be around. Do you understand? A real bastard." Then she withdrew her hand shyly, and I thanked her for her pleasant company and left. When I lay down in the spacious bed under the white sheet and felt my heavy naked body completely relax, I suddenly laughed. I chuckled and laughed out loud to myself and couldn't stop. "Do you understand? A real bastard."

* * *

I spent the whole next day at the hotel. There was a pool in the basement, with an elaborately painted sky on the ceiling so you looked up at white fleecy clouds as you were swimming on your back. There were artificial trees and flowers beautifully arranged in large beds, and the bottom of the pool was decorated with a blue mosaic. It all looked very authentic, even the people lying there as though sunning themselves in lounge chairs around the bar. I stayed a long time in the sauna. I dunked my body down in the cold water right after. Large red splotches spread across my thighs, and my skin received a shock. And that's exactly what I needed. A shock. The wounds on my stomach and chest became soft and turned white from the water and heat. The gash on my hand swelled up. It was certainly good for the healing process, and I sighed with contentment: soon the traces on my body would disappear like dew in sunshine.

* * *

I had a good lunch in the restaurant and drank half a bottle of wine. As I was wiping my mouth, I felt a light touch on my shoulder. It was the Englishwoman. Now wearing a blue suit. I invited her to sit down, and she did so without any hesitation. We ordered coffee. In the daylight I could see her face clearly, the thin lips, greenish eyes, lightly freckled skin with more wrinkles than I had noticed in the dim evening light. She talked about her daughters, one was a nurse and the other a teacher. She showed me a photo of her grandchild, a stout, fair-skinned four-year-old boy. "And you," she asked, "do you have any family?" "A sister, a brother, and a sea of nieces and nephews," I answered. She let out a short sparkling laugh. "That sounds delightful," she said, "a sea of children!" And she threw her arms open wide as if she were about to embrace this sea of children and laughed again. A gold tooth glimmered deep inside her mouth. Then she asked me if I wanted to join her sightseeing in the city, but I declined, saying that I unfortunately had some work to do. Without hiding her disappointment, she asked what kind of work I did, and I got the idea to say that I was writing an article that I needed to finish by the evening. "Oh," she said, "You're a journalist?" And I got the idea to say that I was a writer and I was writing a series of travel articles on the Middle East and Turkey. Her eyes opened wide with enthusiasm. "How exciting!" I smiled and did my best to look both flattered and modest. She gathered up her things, wished me luck with my work, and left. But when she reached the door, she turned and came back. "I just realized, I never introduced myself," she said. "My name is Ellen Parker." She put out her thin hand and let it rest for a moment in mine, light as a baby bird and cool as the white sheets on my bed. I walked back to my room. The wine had made me drowsy and I slept like a rock for two hours.

* * *

The next morning I woke up early and felt uneasy. It was clear that I couldn't stay any longer in this city. And since I had no desire to meet Ellen Parker again, I left the hotel without having breakfast and wandered around the city for a few hours. Even though it was warm, the air was fresh at that time of the day, and I watched people one after another slowly opening their stalls and stores, I watched the sun slide higher in the sky while the children walked to school with their books in their arms, and the traffic became louder, the heat more intense. The city's awakening made my brain work faster and more directed, the feelings that had driven me out of bed and onto the street receded, making it possible to get an overview of my situation. On the one hand, I still wanted to rest and store up energy for the long journey home, on the other hand, Ellen Parker was a problem. I had tempted fate with my lies and had a feeling that she would seek me out again and try to force herself on me. I feared that she sensed I was keeping a secret, and that she, without really realizing it, had the urge to reveal it. I feared she had a sense about me.