The Disoriented

by Amin Maalouf

  Then you had that phone call at dawn. Suddenly, you had a valid reason to make the trip; in fact, given the circumstances, it was a moral obligation. Besides, you were on a sabbatical and your work on the biography of Attila had ground to a halt. If you were ever going to take the plunge, it was now, so I thought it best to push you.

  Now, I regret it. I have the feeling that I’ve lost you. It’s as though I played at being the sorcerer’s apprentice, and I could kick myself. I wanted you to shake off this phobia, to have a healthy attitude not only towards the country you were born in, but towards your own past. But now it feels as though you are drifting towards another world, and that I will soon be no more than a distant voice, a fleeting image. Perhaps even a figure from the past from another of your former lives.

  Then there was the incident with Sémiramis … I promised her that I would never reproach you, and I’ll keep my word. Because I am as responsible as the two of you for what happened. When I got that strange phone call, that strange request, I could have said no. I never in my life imagined that a woman would ask me to “lend” her my partner for the night. It was preposterous, it went against nature. Or at least against everything that, until that moment, I believed was common sense. But I chose to say yes. It was a free choice, and that’s why I want to say again that I will never reproach you for straying, either directly or by veiled allusions.

  Why did I say yes? Firstly, because Sémi could just as easily not have asked me, she could have seduced you without my knowledge, and the fact that she included me in her decision made me feel as though I was not being entirely sidelined; besides, since the two of you were under the same roof and I was thousands of kilometres away, I figured playing the game would be the lesser of two evils; that way the indiscretion would occur with my blessing rather than against my will.

  The second reason is that I wanted to prove myself worthy of your past life, of the youth to which you’re still so attached. I never experienced the sixties or the seventies, when so many taboos about sexuality disappeared. I don’t idealize that period, but I know that it means something to you and I wanted to show you that although I came into your life much later, I was prepared to take part in that risky game. Rather than seeming like a prude, I wanted to be your ally, your partner.

  The third reason is linked to what I said at the beginning. I felt that, in a sense, you needed to exorcise your relationship with your native country, to finally come to terms with your unwarranted phobias and your nostalgia, and reliving this episode with Sémi twenty-five years later seemed to me to be therapeutic.

  All the reasons I’ve just listed now seem pathetic and ridiculous. Tonight, I feel a little ashamed, a little cold, a little scared. I am happier with you than I have ever been in my life. And although I devote a lot of time to my career—a little too much time in recent months, I admit—it’s our relationship, our love, that provides me with the energy I need. If you were to stop loving me, I would not have the strength to get out of bed in the morning. I need your eyes on me, admiring and caressing; I need your advice to support and reassure me; and I need your shoulder to rest my head on at night.

  I’m not writing this to try and ruin the rest of your trip. I’m not asking you to come home right now, I’m not on the edge of the abyss. I just feel very sad and a little insecure tonight. Reassure me! Tell me that everything that’s happened since you left has not changed your love for me, or your desire to come back to your little nest in Paris. If need be, I’m prepared to allow you to lie to me a little …

  Adam was tempted to phone her straightaway in order to reassure her. But in Paris, it was not yet 7:00 a.m. He decided it was better to write.

  Dolores my love,

  I don’t need to lie to find the words to reassure you. You are not someone who needs lies, and that’s why I’ve loved you from the moment we first met. I loved you, I love you, and I will never stop loving you. You are not my latest partner, you are the woman I have been searching for, desperately searching for, the one I was lucky enough and privileged enough to finally meet.

  It is rare to find such integrity in someone without a trace of prudishness. And this strange “pact” you made with Sémi is a powerful example of what I have just said. It took daring to make such a decision. You went against the prevailing “popular” wisdom of our time, and I want you to know that I will never make you regret your daring.

  What you have said about your reasons more or less corresponds to my own feelings, and if there was something childish in my actions, yours were noble and generous, you have no reason to be ashamed. I say “childish” because the theories that so appealed to us in the sixties about couples being “open” to every experience were a recipe for disaster. I was just a kid, I was a sponge soaking up the latest fads imported from France or from universities in the United States, especially those that pandered to my adolescent fantasies.

  I got over them later, as many people did. But there is something that I haven’t gone back on. Although I think the idea of a couple being open to every passing whim is childish, I have little respect for couples whose relationships are musty, and I have nothing but contempt for the old-fashioned couples where the woman is submissive to the man, or the man henpecked by the woman, or both. If I had to set forth my beliefs on the subject, I’d say: complicity, tenderness, and the right to make mistakes.

  On each of these three criteria, our relationship seems exemplary, and what has just happened only serves to confirm my faith in its worth, its beauty, its durability.

  I love you, my beautiful Argentine, and I gently enfold you in my arms so that your heart can be at peace. […]

  He signed the email “Mito,” the nickname Dolores had given him, an abbreviation of Adamito, “little Adam.”

  -

  2

  Only after he had reassured his worried partner did Adam take the trouble to open the other email he had received during the night, this one from Albert.

  Unlike their previous exchanges, this one was in English, which added a little to the intrigue. It was hardly surprising that his friend, having lived in the United States for more than twenty years, might feel more comfortable using the language of his adoptive country. All the same, there was something unusual and even unsettling about it.

  Dear Adam,

  I’m writing to you with good news and bad news. The bad news is that my adoptive mother is gravely ill and it looks as though she might not have much time left, which, as you can imagine, has upset me deeply. So I have to go and visit her, in the old country, if only to kiss her one last time.

  The good news is that this will give me the opportunity to see you, and other friends from my childhood.

  Since I have no wish to put the institute I work for in an awkward situation, I’ve decided to do everything according to the rules and request an exceptional license to travel so that my family obligations do not force me to contravene the directives I must comply with, as a researcher and as a citizen.

  Obviously, I’ll let you know my plans as soon as I have the exact dates of my visit.

  Yours sincerely,

  Albert N. Kithar

  Why had he signed his full name rather than his first name, or simply his initial as he usually did? And who was this “adoptive mother” of whom Adam had never heard, despite knowing Albert since they were children? It was true that Albert had never been very forthcoming about his family, but even so!

  He reread the email a second and then a third time. Eventually the penny dropped. If his friend in America had written to him in English, in this tone, it was clearly because the email was going to be read by others. In a sense, it was a double-sided email, containing both an official message and a coded message. What Albert was trying to tell him was that he had decided to come, and that he had found the perfect pretext for getting around the government ban.

  Why resort to such subterfuge in a f
ree country like the United States? Adam had no idea. But it was something he would be able to ask his friend in person, since he had obviously decided to come. And soon, too, given that his ghostly “adoptive mother” could not hold out for very long. This was the joyous news contained in the message, the rest was merely camouflage.

  Nonetheless, Adam needed to reply in the same language, and with the same ambiguity.

  Dear Albert,

  I am very saddened to hear that your adoptive mother is so ill. I hope that she makes a full recovery.

  I hope that when you come to visit her, we will have the opportunity to see each other. We have so many childhood memories to talk about.

  I will wait to hear from you when you know the dates of your visit.

  All the best,

  Adam

  With a satisfied smile, he pressed Send. He had found it impossible to imagine a reunion without Albert, the most intelligent, the most caustic, the most brilliant of them all. And the most morose, though this had rarely been in evidence since he settled in the United States.

  Now, everything was set for a memorable reunion. Adam stretched himself out like a contented cat and then went and lay down on the bed, ready to doze off.

  His third night with Sémiramis had been as delectable as the first two, but he had only slept in fits and starts. Between their conversations they made love, and between lovemaking they chatted, and so on until dawn.

  He made the effort to sit up, and reach for the notebook that lay on the nightstand, in which he wanted to confide his thoughts.

  SATURDAY, APRIL 28

  Will Sémi and I have a fourth night of passion? Probably not. The “authorization” given by Dolores allowed us a period of grace without the nagging irritant of guilt. But since the email I’ve just received, things can’t carry on as before.

  True, Dolores has not explicitly asked me to put an end to the affair, but what she wants is implicit, and I can’t ignore it without feeling that I’ve betrayed her. Dolores has been so graceful about all this. I would be unworthy of her love if I were less noble than she.

  So, is that the end of it? Should I brusquely “turn the page” and push Sémi out of the love zone? If she were to suddenly open the door and come and lie down next to me, should I push her away or tenderly take her in my arms?

  Having recorded his dilemmas without quite knowing how to resolve them, Adam closed his notebook, set down his pen, and fell asleep.

  When he woke, another email was waiting on his computer. This time from Brazil.

  Dearest Adam,

  I have a lot to say to you about the conflict in the Levant that marked us both and that is clearly not about to end any time soon. If we agree on the essentials, there are also a number of differences. But, paradoxically, these differences are what bring us closer together.

  You deplore the fact that your people are disconnected from the conscience of the world, or at least of the West. I deplore the fact that, these days, my people are disconnected from what was, for centuries, their most historic, their most emblematic, their irreplaceable role: that of the leaven of global humanism. This was our universal mission, the mission that earned us the hatred of fanatics, of regional chauvinists, of all narrow-minded people. I can understand our desire to become “a nation among nations,” with its own sense of belonging. But in the process of this mutation, something essential is being lost. It is not possible to be fiercely nationalist and resolutely universalist.

  I suppose we’ll have the opportunity to discuss this at greater length and in greater depth. But, for the moment—it is precisely 5:20 a.m. here, and I haven’t had my first cup of coffee—I don’t feel able to argue coherently. The reason I’m writing to you at dawn is to respond to your suggestion about dates for the reunion. On that subject, I have a little problem … but also, maybe, a solution.

  I have to fly to Milan for a week on May 8, and the ideal solution would have been for me to make my “pilgrimage” in mid-May. Which might have coincided with the dates you’ve suggested. Unfortunately, that’s not possible, because just after Milan, I have to go to Mexico for an important conference.

  The only possibility I can think of is if I make a detour via the old country before going to Italy. That would mean sometime in the next few days. Will you still be there? And do you think our other friends could be there, so we could all meet up?

  I realize this is all very rushed, and I’ll completely understand if you and the others have plans in the near future. But, as far as I’m concerned, if I don’t come right now, I’ll have to postpone the visit for several months. In fact, I have the feeling that if I don’t seize the opportunity right now, there might not be another for a long time …

  So, that’s why I’m writing at this ungodly hour … Think about it, talk to our friends, and let me know as soon as you can.

  Much love,

  Naïm

  Adam hastily replied, without troubling to think about it or to consult anyone.

  I’ve got just one word to say to you, Naïm: COME! Don’t hesitate. You’ve got an opportunity, don’t let it slip through your fingers. Come! God knows when we’ll get another chance to meet up.

  Personally, I’m not planning to go back to Paris anytime soon. I’ll come and meet you at the airport, probably with Sémi, who’ll propose that you stay at the auberge that bears her name, which is “out of this world.” I suggest you accept. We’ll have adjoining rooms, and we can talk until dawn.

  I look forward to hearing from you very soon. Correction: I look forward to you sending me your flight number and your arrival time.

  Just to be sure, he immediately called Sémiramis on her mobile phone.

  “Naïm has just told me he is going to come soon, possibly next week. I’ve suggested that he take a room here.”

  “You did wisely, it’s an excellent hotel.”

  “I even promised he could have the room adjoining mine.”

  “No problem, it’s still low season. The regulars won’t arrive before June. Until then, as you’ve seen, the place is more or less deserted. And don’t say you’re glad!”

  “No, I’ve learned my lesson, your accountant is tearing his hair out, etcetera, etcetera.”

  “And he’s warned that he might soon have to file for bankruptcy. Not this year, though, not yet.”

  “On a different subject, Albert has diplomatically let me know that he’s found a way to get around the US government directives. But best not to say anything until he’s here with us.”

  “It’s all good news today.”

  Then, lowering her voice, she added.

  “It seems as though last night brought us good luck.”

  “We did what we had to so that fortune might smile on us.”

  When he set down this conversation in his notebook a little later, Adam would comment:

  I said it joyfully, and I immediately felt a pang of shame. Because the early hours had brought me other news that I had been careful not to disclose to the woman with whom I had spent the night. Obviously, I’ll have to let her know before long that our intimate “parenthesis” must come to an end. But I’m in no hurry to do so. Difficult things must be dealt with when they arise, but there’s no sense rushing to do them.

  I shall do as the wisest of the Romans did long ago: I shall play for time.

  -

  3

  It was that Saturday, in the early afternoon, that Adam went to the monastery to which his old friend Ramzi had withdrawn to become Brother Basil.

  “Since the plans for this reunion of yours are starting to take shape, I think it might be the right time to go,” Sémiramis had suggested.

  “You’re right. Even if Ramez and his wife don’t hold out much hope …”

  “If you go with unrealistic expectations, you’re bound to be disappointed. Tell him you wanted
to visit and hear him out, to try and understand his motivation, to see an old friend again. If only for that, it’s worth it, surely?”

  It took more than an hour and a half for them to reach Al-Maghawer, Les Grottes, the village where the monastery of the same name was located. To reach the monastery, they had to take a steep, narrow path with crude steps cut into the cliff face that could only be navigated on foot, or on a donkey.

  It was not until she stopped the car in the shade of an oak tree that Sémiramis told her passenger:

  “I’ve been thinking while we were driving, I’m not going to go up to the monastery. You’ll feel more comfortable on your own.”

  Adam protested only feebly. He, too, had been thinking, and he had reached the same conclusion. He did not yet know what he planned to say to Brother Basil, every word would have to be carefully weighed, and the presence of a third party might make the situation more difficult to manage.

  “What will you do in the meantime?”

  “I have some good friends in the village, they’ll be delighted to see me.”

  He was not sure that she was telling the truth, but it suited him to take her at her word.

  Donning an old straw hat he had borrowed from the hotel, he set off up the stone path.

  Adam would later write a detailed account of his visit.

  The monastery where Ramzi has chosen to live is clearly very old, and much of it is still in ruins. But one wing has been remarkably restored using weathered, slightly irregular stones that don’t offend the eye or clash with the surrounding landscape.

  I knock, and the door is opened by an African monk, a giant of a man with a grey beard who speaks Arabic with a heavy accent. Probably an Ethiopian from the high plains of Abyssinia. I ask for Brother Basil. The monk nods, then steps aside and ushers me into a small room furnished only with a bare table, a battered leather armchair, and four wicker chairs. On the wall, a wooden crucifix of modest dimensions.