by Amin Maalouf
“I also thought of inviting Tania,” Albert went on, “but maybe that’s not such a good idea, since I haven’t gone to pay my condolences yet.”
“You’re right, it would be a very bad idea. She’s not going to want to be seen in public so soon after the death of her husband, and she’d only criticize you for becoming an American ignoramus who knows nothing about the proprieties of your native land. She’s changed a lot, you know. The conversations I’ve had with her in the past few days have left a bitter taste in my mouth.”
“In forty-eight hours, I’ll let you know whether I share your diagnosis. As for tonight, I won’t invite her.”
“But I should mention that there will five of us,” Adam said.
Without warning, he pressed the phone to his partner’s ear; somewhat taken aback, all she could think to say was:
“My name is Dolores.”
She seemed intimidated, which was very unlike her. In their relationship, she was usually the more talkative, the more brazen, the one more likely to command and be obeyed. But she clearly still felt nervous, like a conqueror on the border of an unknown country.
It was an attitude she would maintain for a little while that evening; saying little, smiling politely at other people’s jokes, observing the tics of some and the quirks of others.
Arriving at their former university canteen triggered a flood of incidental memories, of waiters who sold marijuana, of lustful old women in search of strapping, muscular students, of memorable brawls involving kitchen knives.
Dolores waited. She meekly allowed the regulars to choose her dishes; raised her glass to toast to their reunion; then, making the most of a brief silence while the four friends were tasting the wine they had chosen, she said, in the gentle, no-nonsense tone she used when talking to junior editors:
“So, tell me everything! How you met, what brought you all together, and what’s kept you apart for so long. I know practically nothing, and I want to know everything. I’m going to need a crash course to follow your conversations over the next few days. So come on, all four of you; I’m all ears.”
To soften the blow of this peremptory order, she adopted her most luminous, most disarming smile. Then raised the glass to her lips.
The four old friends exchanged furtive looks, each hoping the others would speak first. Eventually, it was Albert who took the plunge.
“Adam and I met when we were at school. There was a horde of us, and he was one of the less barbaric.”
“Coming from Albert, that’s a huge compliment,” Adam whispered to his partner. She pressed a finger to his lips so he would allow his friend to carry on.
“We applied to university together, and that’s where we met the others. More or less all at the same time. At least that’s how I remember it.”
“What was it that brought you all together?” the outsider asked.
Albert took a moment to think.
“There are a couple of possible answers. The first one that comes to mind is that none of us quite fitted into the communities we came from.”
“So, the fact that you were all atypical was what drew you to each other …”
“That’s not quite what I meant. Let me try a different tack.”
It took some time for Albert to marshal his thoughts.
“My closest friend among the Muslims was Ramez; my best Jewish friend was Naïm; and my best friend from the Christian community was Adam. Now, obviously, not all Christians were like Adam, all Muslims like Ramez, or all Jews like Naïm. But they were my friends. They were my blinkers, the reason I couldn’t see the wood for the trees, if you like.”
“And you think that was a good thing?”
“Oh yes, it was a great thing. It’s important not to see the wood. And for that, you need blinkers.”
“So that’s what friends are for?”
“Yes, I think so. Friends help you to preserve your youthful illusions for as long as possible.”
“But you still lose them in the end.”
“Of course, over time, you end up losing your illusions. But it is better not to lose them too soon. Otherwise, you also lose the will to live.”
He felt a lump in his throat, as though the simple fact of seeing his native city and his friends again had brought all his old fears to the surface. An awkward silence settled over the table, and the friends stared down at their plates or their glasses of red wine. Eventually, between mouthfuls, Naïm said:
“And you get kidnapped …”
For a second, everyone was speechless, then Albert retorted:
“Yeah, you get kidnapped. And that turns out to be the best thing that could have happened to you.”
Suddenly, as though to relieve the tension, there came a gale of laughter from the four old friends; even Dolores, who had long ago heard the story of Albert’s abduction told to her by Adam, belatedly joined in. She also stopped before they did, and carried on with her “interrogation”:
“Since Albert mentioned everyone’s religion, I have to ask you all a question that’s been niggling at me for a long time, a question Adam has never really taken the time to answer: why is faith so important in this part of the world?”
The friends looked at each other questioningly, and it was Naïm who finally spoke.
“That’s what people in the West say, but don’t believe a word! It’s just a myth. The truth is exactly the opposite …”
“Really?”
“It’s the West that has clung to faith, even in its secularism, and it’s the West that is religious, even about its atheism. Here, in the Levant, no one cares about your beliefs, it’s about belonging. The religions here are like tribes, and our religious fervour is a kind of nationalism …”
“And a kind of internationalism, too,” Adam said. “It’s both at once. The community of the faithful replaces the nation; and inasmuch as religion cheerfully spans the frontiers of country and of race, it becomes a substitute for the workers of the world, who, apparently, are supposed to unite.”
“A notion that’s been formally refuted these days,” said Naïm, twisting the knife in his own wound and those of his friends.
“The twentieth century was one of secular monstrosities, the twenty-first will be the backlash,” announced the historian.
“Personally, I liked the twentieth century,” Dolores ventured, at the risk of sounding naïve.
“Because you only experienced the latter part,” said Adam, who was ten years older than his partner. “The first half was particularly monstrous. After that, things settled down a little, but by then it was too late, the damage was done.”
“Why do you say ‘too late’?” Sémiramis asked, her tone genuinely worried.
Adam was just about to answer when Albert laid a hand on his arm and interrupted:
“It’s important to remember that for our friend here, being more French than the French themselves, secularism is the supreme virtue. As he sees it, if the world moves away from secularism and towards religion, that means it’s in decline.”
“And you don’t see it that way?” said Adam.
“I think things aren’t so clear-cut. In a world ruled by Mammon, I’m not sure our top priority should be getting rid of God. It’s the golden calf we need to defeat, that’s the greatest threat to democracy and to all other human values. In the name of equality, communism reduced people to slavery, capitalism is trying to do the same thing in the name of economic freedom. Both then and now, God has been the last refuge of the oppressed, the last resort. Why would you want to deprive them of that? And what would you replace it with?”
His comments, also phrased as a question, were spoken like a judge passing sentence. There ensued a long silence, which was finally broken by Sémiramis attempting, unsuccessfully, to steer the debate onto a different track.
“The other day, Adam was s
aying that the two major catastrophes of the twentieth century were communism and anti-communism.”
“And the two major catastrophes of the twenty-first century will be Islamic fundamentalism and anti-Islamic fundamentalism,” the historian predicted. “Which, with all due respect to our esteemed futurologist, promises a century of decline.”
“Don’t listen to them, Dolores!” Sémiramis whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear. “They’re depressing, our three companions. They left the country when they heard the first gunshot, and now they’re predicting the apocalypse to justify the fact that they left.”
“The apocalypse I’m predicting doesn’t just involve this country, it’s involved the whole planet!” Adam protested.
His partner shot him a bewildered look.
“Oh, well that’s reassuring,” she said, “I was starting to get worried.”
Once more, all five burst out laughing; it went on for a long time. Nobody wanted to talk any more. Then followed a silence. Then Naïm, who never joked when it came to the epicurean arts, said in a solemn tone:
“Do you think the bartender here knows how to make a caipirinha?”
-
The Sixteenth Day
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1
That day in May was supposed to be the day of the reunion. It was to be the day of the final separation, the final dispersal.
Adam had planned a precise schedule, and set it down on paper, presumably to clarify his thoughts.
We’ll meet in Sémi’s little house at twelve, twelve thirty at the latest. If Ramzi joins us, I’ll let him say an ecumenical prayer, then I’ll give a welcome speech. It might sound inappropriate for a reunion of friends, but I’d rather do it to set the tone, so everyone knows this is no ordinary occasion.
Ramez has promised to bring some kind of collage he’s had his daughter make at the office, a collection of forty photographs, most of them from the old days, of everyone who will be there, he tells me, and the two who will be absent, Bilal and Mourad. He’ll give a copy to everyone, inscribed: The Sophists’ Symposium. May 5–6, 2001, Auberge Sémiramis. This rather pretentious name will give the gathering a certain solemnity. But why not? I rather like the idea.
In a thoughtful touch, Ramez wanted Dolores to be part of the collage. I had no photos of her with me, but Sémi found one that she had taken the evening she had come to dinner with us in Paris. It showed the three of us, arm in arm, our cheeks pressed together, a physical closeness that takes on a very different significance in the light of our recent intimate “adventures.”
Dunia and Ramez will set off on their private jet at dawn. I trust them, they’ll be the first to arrive even though they’re coming from farther away than anyone else.
Albert has promised that his “adoptive father” will drop him off at noon precisely; I trust him, too.
Nidal has confirmed that he’s coming, said he wouldn’t be late. I’ve got no reason to doubt him, militants are always punctual. Sémi still thinks it was a mistake to invite him … But even so, she bought a six-pack of non-alcoholic beer for him.
Tania, on the other hand, is never on time, I’m told. Given her behaviour in the past few days, I should probably be happy, but I can’t see myself giving the welcome speech before she arrives. After all, she’s the one who came up with the idea for the reunion. We’ll see …
The person I’d be most upset not to see there would be Brother Basil. More than anyone else, he would lift this reunion to new heights. Not just by the words he chooses to say, which are unlikely to stray into hackneyed cliché, but by the simple fact of his coming, and how that will affect everyone, especially Ramez and his wife. There will probably be a few reproaches, a few regrets, maybe a few tears; but I’m convinced that they will have made up by the time they leave.
The monk’s presence would add both intellectual stimulation and emotional intensity. Whether or not he comes is another matter … Unlike the others, he didn’t formally commit himself. He said “maybe” and “it’s a wonderful initiative on your part,” but I can’t see him just turning up unannounced. And I don’t think it would be a good idea to phone him. I’m pretty sure that if I were to call, he’d find some excuse not to come.
The only thing to do would be to head off with the inimitable Kiwan to go and fetch him; without warning him, relying simply on the last conversation we had, on the edge of the labyrinth. If he sees I’ve come all the way to fetch him, he’ll feel too ashamed to let me go away alone, he’ll stifle his qualms, he’ll come.
In order to do this, we’ll need to set off very early, arrive at the monastery by nine thirty, and head back before ten o’clock so we arrive back at the hotel shortly before noon. This means leaving here at about 7:00 a.m.
Dolores said she’ll come with me.
But Dolores would change her mind. They had arrived back from the restaurant late the night before, at about two o’clock in the morning. When the alarm rang at 6:30 a.m. she had not stirred. Adam got up, tapped her very gently on the shoulder two or three times. Without opening her eyes, she asked what time it was. He told her. She grunted, then fell asleep again.
Adam had shaved, taken a shower, dressed, and then come back and bent down to plant a gentle kiss on her lips. Instinctively, she reached her arms out to hug him. Then she let him go. He left.
-
2
By the time Adam arrived at the monastery, Brother Basil was already prepared. The night before, he had told the monks that he was going away and would be back on Sunday night.
His friend offered to take his rucksack, but he insisted on carrying it himself. Besides, it was only a battered leather bag and visibly not very heavy.
Of what happened in the hour that followed we know very little, no witnesses have come forward, so we can only speculate.
The bare facts are these: Sémiramis’s car was involved in an accident, the driver and one of the passengers were killed outright, the third occupant was seriously injured and, at the time of writing, has still not regained consciousness.
The theory is that the car suddenly swerved off the road, and rolled once or twice before somehow plummeting into the void. It smashed onto the rocks below. Then it exploded, and the fire spread to the undergrowth.
Two charred bodies were found in the wreckage. “Kiwan Y., chauffeur, 41” and “Ramzi H., engineer, 50,” according to the police report. There is no mention of Brother Basil. “Adam W., professor, 47” was found lying some fifteen metres away, having been thrown from the vehicle; he had probably opened the door in an attempt to get out.
Nobody saw the accident happen, no one heard the explosion, and the fire burned itself out. It has to be said that that particular stretch of mountain road, about ten kilometres from the Monastery at Les Grottes, is arid, rocky, winding, and sees little traffic.
We cannot exclude the possibility that someone witnessed the accident and has chosen to remain silent. If the car swerved, it may have been to avoid an oncoming vehicle. In that case, the other driver would bear some responsibility for the tragedy, and might decide not to come forward. But this is not the only possible scenario. Kiwan may have swerved to avoid an animal—a fox or a jackal, or maybe a dog.
Adam has already mentioned the hotel chauffeur’s polite but inappropriate habit of turning towards the person he was speaking to and taking his eyes off the road. The possibility that this is what caused the tragedy cannot be ruled out. But all of this is pure speculation, and it is possible that no one will ever know what actually happened. “… veered off the road for some unknown reason, at a point known as Al-Sanassel.” This may be the extent of the police investigation.
Initially, Adam’s friends had not been worried.
All of them had arrived on time, even a little early. Sémiramis had greeted them in her private residence, which was painted in warm tones: terracotta, ochre, and burn
t sienna; it was relatively spacious, even if its owner called it the “little house” to distinguish it from the building that had been converted into a hotel.
In the vast square living room, the walls were lined with books, and the floor was piled with two or three layers of Persian rugs. The chairs and sofas were old and mismatched, but the colour matched the warm décor and the cushions were soft and comfortable.
It had been planned that the friends would gather here for a brief welcome drink before heading up to the top floor of the hotel, where Sémiramis had prepared a sumptuous meal.
Shortly before 12:30 p.m., Dolores phoned Adam to see how far away he was. There was no answer. She called several times and, after about fifteen minutes, asked Sémiramis for the chauffeur’s number. His phone did not answer either. Ramez reassured them, explaining that the car was probably in an area with no cell-phone signal. This was plausible, and it succeeded in reassuring some of the friends. But not Dolores. By now, it was 1:35 p.m., and Dolores knew her partner well enough to know how much he hated being late. Especially for an event like this, a reunion that he had organized.
It is true that, initially, Adam had not had much faith that his plan would succeed. He had written the first invitations more to console Mourad’s widow and to ease his own guilt. He was surprised by his friends’ enthusiasm and the speed at which the plan had come together.
That these people, who had been scattered across the globe by war and the vagaries of life, who now lived on four different continents, working in very different professional, political, or spiritual fields, that these people who had not seen each other for a quarter of a century were willing to come to this remote mountain hotel, at a word from him, might seem understandable in hindsight, but when Adam first wrote the letters, he was not expecting it.
Each of them must have felt a powerful urge to reconnect with the friends they had known; and, of course, through these friends with the life they had known before the war, before the diaspora, before the breakdown of their Levantine society, before the deaths of people they had loved. Perhaps Albert was right when he suggested in one of his emails that, if they had not met up again since university, it was because of Mourad. “A reunion with him had become unthinkable, a reunion without him made no sense. […] his death is the perfect pretext for us all to meet up again.”
