The Disoriented

by Amin Maalouf

  “You wanted to know why Ramzi withdrew from the world? That’s my explanation. It’s also possible that he had a Damascene conversion, but the tragedy that was his family was more than enough reason for a man to want to go and hole up in a monastery.”

  “Has he been there long?”

  “The last time he came to the office was February of last year.”

  “So, fourteen months.”

  “To me, it might as well be fourteen years.”

  “Have you seen him since then?”

  “Just once. It was …”

  Ramez suddenly stopped and looked at his watch.

  “Half past three! I didn’t notice the time passing. I can be pretty long-winded when it comes to him.”

  “What time is your flight?”

  “Whenever we decide. It’s my plane, and the crew is on standby, they’re just waiting for my call.”

  Suddenly, his face broke into a broad smile.

  “I’ve just had a brilliant idea. You’re coming to Amman with me.”

  “Thanks for the invitation, but it’s not possible.”

  “Let’s not play at being overworked businessmen, Adam. We’re back together for the first time in twenty years, we’re talking to each other as if we’d never been apart. It is a glorious opportunity, why let it slip through our fingers? I’m sure you’ve got a thousand things you want to say, and so have I. Why can’t we be the way we were back then? We never arranged to meet up, we never had to check our diaries. You’d pull up under my balcony and beep your horn, I’d come downstairs and we’d head off to a café, or to the cinema, or to Mourad’s house … For once, let’s just forget propriety, forget how old we are. Let’s do what we used to do. We’re having lunch and, at the end of the meal, I say, ‘Why don’t you come back to my place for the evening, I’ll introduce you to my wife, and I’ll drop you back here tomorrow.’ I get up, you get up, and we head off. Have you got your passport?”

  “I always keep it in my pocket. Force of habit.”

  “Have you any medication you need to take tonight?”

  Adam checked. He had them with him.

  “Perfect, everything else is irrelevant,” Ramez said. “We can go.”

  “But I don’t have a spare shirt, or my toilet bag.”

  “Don’t worry about that, I’ll sort it out. Let’s go.”

  At this, he laid his hands on the table and hoisted himself to his feet, and three seconds later, Adam did likewise.

  -

  6

  From a distance, Ramez’s private jet could pass for a commercial plane. The silver-grey Mercedes drove through the various checkpoints and pulled up at the foot of the airstairs. The jet’s body was emblazoned with the company logo, twin crescent moons which were actually a stylized version of the initials of the founders of Ramzi Ramez Works, one of the largest public construction companies in the region.

  Inside, but for the windows, it was easy to forget that this was an aeroplane. There was an office, a bedroom, and a living room that could be effortlessly converted into a dining room. Any eventual passengers were seated in one of twenty comfortable seats in a section that on a commercial plane would have had sixty.

  As soon as the two friends were settled, a Sûreté officer came aboard, checked their passports with a quick nod, and wished them a pleasant flight. Once he had disembarked, the doors were closed, the air steward came to check that their seatbelts were secured, then, at a nod from his boss, he brought them two Turkish coffees and an assortment of oriental pastries.

  “Sugar with your coffee?”

  Adam glanced at the plate of pastries before answering:

  “No, thanks, no sugar.”

  The two men exchanged a guilty grin, then each selected a sweetmeat and settled back in his chair to savour it.

  “No sugar …” Ramez said, laughing good-naturedly.

  When he had finished the last mouthful, Adam said to his friend:

  “What does it feel like to be rich?”

  “You’re not exactly poor, from what I’ve heard.”

  “No, I’m not poor. But my monthly salary would be just enough to buy a return ticket from Paris to Amman in cattle class. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining, I have no financial worries and I don’t want for anything. But given the vocation I’ve chosen, I’m never going to be rich.”

  Up to this point, Ramez had simply smiled, perhaps with a little embarrassment. Now, his face clouded over. He began by repeating his friend’s question, but as a statement:

  “What does it feel like to be rich … The day I realized that the company was on a sure footing, that it was earning more and more money and that I was a rich man, I felt …”

  He seemed to hesitate over his words.

  “I felt as though I had recovered half my dignity.”

  The phrase was cryptic and unexpected. Adam was about to ask him to clarify, but noticed that his friend suddenly seemed very agitated and gave him a moment to regain his composure.

  Ramez took a sip of his coffee before continuing.

  “For years now, I’ve been waking up with two conflicting feelings, joy and sadness. Joy, because I have made a success of my profession, I’ve earned a lot of money, I have a beautiful house and a contented family life. But sadness, too, because my people are in the depths of despair. Those who speak the language I speak, those who profess the same religion, are everywhere derided and often despised. Since birth, I have belonged to a vanquished civilization, and since I am not prepared to renounce it, I must live with that mark on my forehead.”

  Silence. Still Adam said nothing; his friend went further:

  “I’m not simply talking about solidarity with my own people, about empathy. I, too, feel humiliated, personally humiliated.

  “When I travel to Europe, people treat me with respect—as they do anyone who is rich. They smile at me, they open doors for me with a little bow, they are happy to sell me anything I care to buy. But deep down, they despise me and look down on me. To them, I’m nothing but a rich barbarian. Even when I’m wearing the finest Italian suit, to them, I’m a beggar. Why? Because I belong to a vanquished people, a vanquished civilization. I feel it less intensely in Asia, in Africa, in Latin America, because they have been just as oppressed by history. But in Europe, I feel it keenly, don’t you?”

  Adam was caught completely unawares.

  “Maybe, sometimes,” he said without truly committing himself.

  “In Paris, when you speak Arabic in public, don’t you spontaneously lower your voice?”

  “Probably.”

  “Think about the other foreigners! The Italians, the Spanish, the Russians, not to mention the British and the Americans. They’re not worried about being met with a hostile or a disapproving glare. Maybe I’m imagining it. But it’s how I feel. And even if I were the richest man in the world, it wouldn’t change anything.”

  Another long silence. Ramez gazed through the window at the clouds. Adam studied them too. The steward appeared and, at a nod from his boss, cleared away the pastries and came back some seconds later with a bowl of fruit.

  “Have you ever had white apricots?” Ramez asked with a note of pride.

  He chose a perfect, ripe fruit of a yellow so pale it did indeed look white. He handed it to Adam, who closed his eyes and slowly bit into it.

  “Delicious! I’ve never eaten one before.”

  “The harvest is so small that they’ve never been commercialized. I have them shipped in specially from a little village near Damascus.”

  “I didn’t know that such an exquisite flavour even existed!”

  “I’m glad you like it. It’s my favourite fruit. Ramzi used to love them too. Every year, I’d send him two crates. Now, I’ll send them to you.”

  The two men reverently ate another luscious fruit
. Then another. But their pleasure was now tainted by the memory of their lost friend.

  After a long moment, Adam said simply:

  “So, you went to see him …”

  Ramez heaved a sigh and nodded several times.

  “Yes, I went to see him. I was convinced that if I made a solid case, I could persuade him to come back. Our friendship—unlike so many others—was never based on silence, lies, or turning a blind eye. We had always talked a lot, argued a lot, always respected each other’s opinions. I thought that day it would be the same. That he would tell me about his worries, that I would comfort him, reassure him, and that, in the end, I’d have the date when he planned to come back, or at least a promise.

  “But I quickly realized I was mistaken. When I saw him wearing a monk’s habit, I was completely at a loss. What arguments could I come up with, me, a Muslim engineer, that might persuade a Christian monk to return to civilian life? I know nothing about theology, and I thought it would be ridiculous to talk about problems with the company. Or about anything else. My mind went blank, like an actor who has suddenly forgotten his lines. So, I launched into polite platitudes. ‘Are you well, Ramzi?’ ‘Yes, thank you, I’m well.’ ‘There’s nothing you need?’ ‘No, I have everything I want.’ ‘Are they treating you well?’ ‘I’m not in prison, Ramez, I’m in a monastery of my own free will.’ I apologized. It’s true, I felt as though I was in a prison visiting room. I tried to change tack. ‘What I meant was, is the life you’re leading here with the monks what you hoped it would be?’ He said, ‘Yes. I wanted a simple life, one where I could take the time to meditate, to pray, to reflect. And that’s exactly what I’ve found.’ I asked if he wanted me to fill him in on what had been happening with the company, he said no. I asked if he wanted news of his children, he said no. I asked if it bothered him that I had come to visit, he said no, but only after a few seconds’ hesitation. At that point, I realized that I wasn’t welcome. I stood up. He stood up. I shook hands with him, like he was a stranger. He told me he would pray for me.

  “I went out, walked as far as my car, got into the back seat and cried like I haven’t cried since my father died. My chauffeur was staring at me in the rearview mirror, but I didn’t care what he thought. I didn’t hold back, I let my tears flow. Ramzi was more than a brother to me, and now, suddenly, inexplicably, he had become a stranger. That’s the sad story of ‘the inseparables.’”

  “So, you’d advise me against visiting him?”

  “No, absolutely not. It’s important to keep in touch. With me, he was on his guard, he was worried that I’d pressure him to go back to his old life. And besides, it was just after his … his transformation. It was too soon; I would have done better to wait. A year has passed since then, he might be happy to see an old friend.”

  “I’ll try and see him in the next couple of days. Actually, I’ve got a plan I’m working on. In fact, I was about to mention it before our conversation drifted off. I’m trying to get all our old friends together again for a reunion.”

  Ramez almost leapt out of his seat.

  “That is a brilliant idea! I’ve wanted to do something like that for years. I loved the evenings we used to spend together. I remember the conversation, the laughter. I never really got over seeing the group disperse. Nothing in the world can replace the warmth of a group of friends. Not work, not money, not family. Nothing can replace those moments when friends get together, share their thoughts, their dreams, their food. At least, I feel I need it. Maybe I’m hopelessly nostalgic, a frustrated teenager who’s never really adapted to the adult world, but that’s how I feel. That was what Ramzi and I were looking for, a childhood friendship that could carry on for the rest of our lives, that could be as much a part of our professional lives as our private lives. And, for years, that’s what we had, and it was amazing. And then we lost it …”

  His face began to cloud over once again.

  “Needless to say, you can count me in. Just give me the date and the location of the reunion, and I’ll be there. Even if I’m half way around the world, I’ll be there. On the other hand, if you’re hoping to persuade Ramzi to leave the monastery and join us, you’re in for a disappointment. Unless he has changed completely in the past few months.”

  “Based on what you’ve just told me, I think it’s a lost cause. But I’ll go and visit him anyway. And I will invite him to come; we’ll see how he responds.”

  “Who else were you planning to invite?”

  “I’ve already written to Albert, who’s based in America, and to Naïm who’s in Brazil. Then there’s you and me, obviously, and Tania and Sémi. Apart from Ramzi, I was thinking of inviting Bilal’s brother, Nidal.”

  Adam watched for a reaction from his friend, but Ramez simply gave an ambiguous nod.

  “Do you think it’s a good idea to invite Nidal?”

  Ramez seemed to hesitate, and then said with a smile of resignation:

  “Yes, why not. Invite him.”

  “You don’t exactly seem enthusiastic.”

  “Enthusiastic, no. But I’m not against the idea.”

  He thought for a moment.

  “I’ll tell you what I really feel. Sooner or later radical militants like Nidal become the oppressors. But right now, they’re the ones being oppressed in our countries, and in the West, they’re demonized. Do you defend someone who is being oppressed knowing full well that, someday soon, he will behave like a tyrant? It’s a dilemma I don’t have an answer to … So, if you were planning to invite him, go ahead, why not?”

  He shrugged and paused for a moment.

  “Who else were you thinking about?”

  “I’d like our friends to bring their wives. They’ll probably get bored listening to our stories, but it will forge a closer bond. I certainly hope that your wife can come.”

  “I’ll let you invite her when we get to Amman. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled.”

  “I’m less sure that my partner, Dolores, will be able to join us. She works all the hours that God sends.”

  “Is she French?”

  “No, Argentine. But she’s been living in France for twenty years.”

  “I assume Naïm married a Brazilian?”

  “No idea. I know he’s married, and that he has kids of university age. But I don’t know anything about his wife. If he’s ever mentioned her name, I can’t remember it.”

  “Do you realize what you’ve just said? You and Naïm, you used to be like brothers, and now you don’t even know the name of his wife. Any more than you knew my wife’s name or I knew yours’ this morning. Things like that make me sad, it makes me sick. I feel as though we’ve all betrayed each other.”

  “You’re right. But we have the war and the fact that we’re scattered here and there as an excuse.”

  “It’s always possible to come up with an excuse. But if we valued our friendships at all, we would have found some way to meet up once or twice in the space of twenty-five years. I’m not blaming the others, I’m mostly blaming myself. I spend my life criss-crossing the world, I could easily have stuck pins in a world map marking the cities where my friends live so I could visit when I was passing through. Actually, I’m going to do just that. It’s never too late. You’re in Paris, Naïm is in Brazil—São Paulo or Rio?”

  “São Paulo.”

  “And Albert?”

  “He’s in Indianapolis working for a think tank.”

  “Now you mention it, I remember someone telling me that. He’s pretty influential, apparently.”

  “Possibly. I certainly know he’s well respected in academia.”

  “I’m not surprised. Even back in university, he was a thoughtful, intelligent, imaginative guy. Most people didn’t notice, because he was taciturn and withdrawn. He had to go to the United States to blossom. Are you in touch with him?”

  “Yes, we email each other fr
om time to time. It’s true, he often comes out with things that are surprising and intelligent. On the other hand, I know nothing about his private life. I don’t even know whether he’s got a wife, or children.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “One day, the three of us were hanging out, Albert, Ramzi, and me. As usual, he wasn’t saying much, with his pointy little nose and his sardonic smile. We were chatting about some girl. I thought she was sexy and Ramzi thought she was stuck-up. Or maybe it was the other way round. Typical teenage-boy talk. Suddenly Albert said, ‘Lots of people think that you two are a couple, but no one even suspects me. Funny, isn’t it?’ It took us a couple of seconds to realize that our friend had just confided his most private secret. We gave each other a knowing smile. Then Albert said, in French, ‘Don’t go telling the barbarians!’ We reassured him with a nod.

  “When Ramzi and I were alone, we promised not to mention it to anyone, ‘barbarian’ or otherwise. You’re the first person I’ve ever told. I know you’ve never had any prejudices about things like that, and even if you had, you’d have long since lost them in the years you’ve been living in Europe. And, I assume that, after living for so many years in America, he probably doesn’t hide it anymore. Even so, I wouldn’t bring up the subject, let him decide whether to talk about it or not.”

  “Strange that he never confided in me,” said Adam, perhaps surprised, but definitely annoyed. “Do you think he included me among the ‘barbarians’?”

  “No, of course not, he was very fond of you, you were probably his closest friend. I think he didn’t tell his secret to anyone, and that time with Ramzi and me, it just slipped out. Once he’d said it, he couldn’t take it back, so he pretended to be cool about it. He smiled, but it was a forced smile. He was probably kicking himself for blurting it out. But he had no reason to worry. We never betrayed him; actually, after that the three of us were closer.”