A Country for Dying

by Abdellah Taïa

  I refused clients during those first three days of Ramadan.

  I had to find a way to make him understand the nature of my profession. Surely he noticed that, during the day, my cell phone almost never rang. At night, however, after the break of fast, the calls came nonstop. I never answered in front of him. I would go out on the landing and repeated the same lie to everyone: “Sorry, I’m really sick. Call back in a few days.” And I would return to the apartment, where Mojtaba seemed to have made himself at home.

  Nothing about him bothered me. Every day I liked his physical and spiritual presence a little bit more. His voice. His innocence mixed with a certain feeling of revolt.

  Ramadan is of course an exhausting month. We would sleep in late every morning. In the early afternoon, we would watch Egyptian TV series on cable or else I would show him a few of my favorite Indian movies. Around six o’clock, I would prepare the abundant meal we ate to break the fast.

  Without much effort, I taught him to love the food Moroccans eat during the month of Ramadan.

  To begin: harira, crêpes with a mixture of honey and olive oil, scrambled eggs with cumin, hot milk with thyme, date purée.

  Two hours later: very sweet mint tea with sfouf and different kinds of chabbakiya.

  Late at night: a tagine.

  I prepared all the secret tagine recipes I knew for Mojtaba. His favorite was the same as Zannouba’s, the one with lamb, potatoes, fennel, candied lemon, and olives. It’s the fennel flavor that changes everything, permeates everything. Zannouba told me one day that she had had a dream in which she was sharing that tagine with Zineb, my father’s sister who disappeared several years ago. Zineb was happy, all smiles, and she was the one feeding Zannouba. When she had this dream, Zannouba was still going by Aziz and she had seen a sign in it: she absolutely had to fulfill her destiny, become a woman, entirely woman. Finally make an appointment with the surgeon to do the deed.

  Zannouba gave a name to this dish: Zineb’s Tagine. She insisted that Zineb had prepared the dish through me. That was how she visited us.

  Mojtaba only stayed with me one month. He requested the fennel tagine at least twice a week. After watching me make it over and over, he eventually learned my recipe by heart.

  “I will always remember this dish, Zahira. Always.”

  I know that he’ll keep his promise. Whether he’s in London or Stockholm now, I know that he makes this tagine from time to time. For himself. Only for himself.

  At the end of the fifth day, Mojtaba started to go out for walks between ten o’clock and midnight. I managed to see all my clients in quick succession during those two hours.

  When he returned, we ate. We watched Arab television channels and, sometimes, Iranian channels. I learned, thanks to him, that I could access those channels on cable, too.

  Just before dawn, we drank hot milk, we ate a few dates, and got ready for bed. We brushed our teeth. We both lay down in a corner. We turned out the lights. Sometimes Mojtaba very softly sang the poems of his country. I didn’t understand them. But I loved them. All of them.

  I know nothing about Mojtaba. His life from before. His education. His parents. His loves. His future.

  I see Mojtaba. I let him do as he pleases. He doesn’t ask for anything. He just wants to stay with me.

  I live through Mojtaba’s life. His life, which he creates with me, in front of me. For me.

  I give what I can to Mojtaba. Everything.

  I’m the one who rubs his back when he washes himself, every two or three days, in my tiny shower. I don’t turn away when he changes his clothes. I look. I look at that entire Iranian body, Persian with a hint of Muslim. Day after day, that naked body and its details worked their way into my memory. My heart.

  An incredible sweetness. A sea of tenderness. Rivers of infinite love.

  One day, almost at the end of Ramadan, he said to me:

  “I’ve dreamed for a long time of going to the Jardin du Luxembourg. Do you know it?”

  I was a bit taken aback. Apart from the Eiffel Tower, Sacré-Coeur, and Notre Dame, I wasn’t really familiar with the Parisian monuments. And the idea of visiting them had never crossed my mind.

  “By name, Mojtaba. Only by name.”

  Then he suggested:

  “I want to visit it today, Zahira. Will you come with me? Is it far from here?”

  It was very hot that day. We walked through the neighborhoods and the arrondissements that separated us from the garden.

  Barbès. Gare du Nord. Gare de l’Est. Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis. Les Halles. Châtelet. Cité. Saint-Michel. Odéon. Saint-Germain. Saint-Sulpice. Rue Servandoni. Jardin du Luxembourg.

  Place Saint-Sulpice, he wanted to visit the church. I followed him. He showed me several paintings on the walls. He stopped for a long time in front of one of them. It was clear he knew it and had loved it for a long time. It was of a man and an angel fighting each other near a river and a tree. Who are they? Who will win? Their combat seems eternal. In that church, it had only just begun. Behind them, other men, probably traveling. Paying no attention to what’s happening in the foreground. The dispute was taking place only for Mojtaba and me.

  I left the church and waited on the steps. The sun was beating down hard. It triumphed.

  When Mojtaba joined me, I suggested we go have a drink before entering the garden. That didn’t shock him. Neither of us mentioned that it was still Ramadan.

  We ordered the same thing. Orangina. Me first. He did the same. That quenched our thirst, refreshed us.

  We didn’t linger too long at the café.

  It was nearly eight o’clock when we arrived at the Jardin du Luxembourg. There was only an hour before closing, and that night, that immense garden, imposing, grandiose, was already nearly empty.

  Mojtaba looked at me. He was delighted.

  “The French are gone. The garden is ours.”

  “Only for an hour, Mojtaba. Don’t forget.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Let’s stay together, Mojtaba?”

  “Let’s stay together, Zahira.”

  He took my hand and led me around to all the different monuments. He listed several things about the history of the site, its construction, its multiple renovations, its architecture. I remember nothing. It must not have interested me. He cited numerous complicated French names that didn’t mean much to me, either. I quickly forgot them. Near the large pond, he let go of my hand.

  “Wait for me here, Zahira?”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll come back.”

  “But there’s no one left in the garden, Mojtaba. They’ll kick us out soon.”

  “I know. Don’t worry. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

  That garden was foreign territory. For five long seconds my body was shot through with monumental panic. I managed to stifle it without knowing where I drew the necessary energy to do so. I looked around me. What I saw was familiar. Grass. Flowers. Some trees. Then, no, no longer familiar. I had never come here, to this neighborhood, to this world. I had never breathed in this scent. I recognized certain buildings that are part of the history of this country, but only from distant memories. Old images of Paris glimpsed on Moroccan television, alongside my father sometime before his death. They were meant to inspire dreams. To crush us a little bit, too. That world is not for you. Look, but only from a distance, through a screen. Don’t come. Stay where you are. It’s not for you.

  I must have received the message loud and clear because, ever since I’ve lived in Paris, I’ve never had the desire to visit this garden, beautiful and cold. Mojtaba didn’t have this feeling towards Paris. He was only passing through.

  I understood his fascination for this city and its cultural riches, but we didn’t share the same connection to it. That didn’t have any bearing on the important thing: I was w
ith Mojtaba, sharing a moment. Just for him.

  I already felt the desire to return to my territory, my Paris.

  I plunged my gaze into the pond before me. I saw phantoms within it. Not jinns. Ancient phantoms on the verge of emerging.

  I closed my eyes immediately. The panic attack was returning. I cried out:

  “Mojtaba! Mojtaba! MOJTABA!”

  I opened my eyes. He was there. In front of me.

  “Come, Zahira. I found it.”

  “You found what?”

  “Don’t talk. Follow me . . . Follow me . . .”

  He took my hand again. And we hid ourselves in a dark corner.

  The groundskeepers passed by.

  Night fell.

  In the Jardin du Luxembourg, there were now only two foreigners. Two freeloaders. Two children getting ready to start playing, or brawling, or chasing. A brother. A sister.

  We didn’t sleep that night. Mojtaba opened other doors for me. Other worlds. Other secrets.

  The oppressive summer heat hadn’t subsided.

  When we were exhausted from walking through the garden in every direction, we collapsed onto the grass. Mojtaba took out sweets from his pockets and his backpack.

  It was our meal to break the fast. And our dinner, too.

  Then: sleep came.

  The nocturnal noises of Paris ceased. Everything would now mix together. The barriers created by men would now cease to exist.

  Return to the first world.

  When I woke up early the next day, Mojtaba had disappeared. Forever.

  Next to me, he had left two letters. In the one meant for me, he thanked me very warmly, bade me farewell, asked me to mail the second letter, and gave me permission to read it before sending it.

  I left the garden, sad and angry.

  I walked back through Paris the way I had come. I could have taken the metro. The desire to retrace the steps I had taken the day before with Mojtaba was stronger.

  Next to a post office in Barbès, I found a Turkish translator who also spoke Farsi. His office was small, empty. He invited me to sit down. I preferred to remain standing while he translated the other letter for me.

  mojtaba’s second letter

  Dear Mama,

  A warm hello to you and to your heart.

  In this world I’m in, which you will probably never see, everything is new. Everything is already in motion. Decided forever. It’s called Paris. The capital of France. You know, that country where my father’s brother went to live after the revolution of 1979, and where he died, probably murdered, two years later. I am here. In this city. In this name, Paris, empty of meaning for you, quickly filling for me.

  I’m only passing through. I met a woman. Her name is Zahira. She has a beautiful soul. She’s put me up for almost a month now. I will leave her very soon. I don’t dare tell her goodbye.

  I don’t know how to say goodbye.

  I am going to entrust her with this letter that you are reading now. I told her that she could read it. It is written in Farsi. Zahira will find a translator so as to understand the words I’ve written to you. Through these words, my words for you, Mama, you two will meet.

  Hello to you, Zahira.

  Hello to you, Mama.

  I don’t know if you will see each other one day. Destiny and fate have carried me elsewhere.

  I had to flee Iran and Tehran, Mama. I didn’t have a choice. I hope that you’ll answer: “Yes, I know, Mojtaba, I know.”

  They left me no choice. I had to save my life. Leave right away. Or else, prison forever. They were looking for me. The regime’s assassins. The secret services wanted to end the 2009 revolution at any cost. Kill the youth and the massive protest. Put out the big fire. We didn’t want that puppet president, Ahmadinejad, that man for whom the majority of Iranians hadn’t voted. I was among the youth, Mama. I never told you that face-to-face. But you understood everything. And we remained silent. As always. I know that the silence between you and me is not like their silence. The silence that they impose on everyone from morning to night. In our house, there was no one but you and me. I thought of you, alone. But I never thought of the silence that surrounded you, too. How is it now, that silence? How are you, without me? How is Tehran in this moment, without the Green Movement, without the clamor of fury? Are you eating, Mama? Are you eating well? Are you sleeping? Are you sleeping well?

  I know that you can read a bit of English. In the envelope containing this letter you will find photocopies of articles I wrote for the English press. I was a secret correspondent for the paper the Guardian. Eventually they figured everything out. By finding me in the middle of the street, participating in the protests, too.

  They shot at me, Mama. I saw death! I saw death!

  I had no choice. I had to leave.

  I didn’t want to implicate you in all of that. I didn’t want them to find you. You have nothing to do with this. They must have paid you a visit after I fled. I’m sure of it. I hope that they didn’t do you any harm. Mama, read these articles and then burn them immediately. Don’t wait to do it. Follow this advice. It’s very important. I don’t want to scare you. I’ll get out of this. I’ll figure it out. I’ll always find a solution. A place. A roof. A meal to eat. But I do want to tell you that I’m tired. So tired. It’s been exactly a year since I was forced to leave. From one day to the next, I had to leave everything. Exit the world. That name: Iran. That life. I never wanted to leave Iran. I feel attached to everything over there. To everything that is you, us, that we created together. To everything that I inherited. I never wanted to turn my back on you. Abandon you. Flee. In any event, boys like me never leave their mother. I feel like I am in the void. Everything is empty. Even Paris is empty. They threw me over the highest edge. A year later, I’m still falling.

  Still falling.

  I wanted to tell you all of this, Mama. It’s important. I am neither an angel nor a devil. I am neither a pious Muslim nor a washed-up drunk. But once, I dreamed, too. That’s all.

  For them, that’s my crime. They say that I betrayed the nation, Islam, History, the people, the soul of the Iranian people, and I don’t know what else. It’s not true, Mama. Don’t believe them. Don’t believe them. Paris was only a stopover. I have the choice between London and Stockholm. I think they’ll find me again pretty easily in London since they know everything. All I have left is Stockholm. I’ll ask for political asylum over there. I’m sure that must sound like a very exciting possibility, Stockholm. Not for me, Mama. I have no idea what that city is really like, outside of books and certain movies. I have nothing against Stockholm. I don’t see myself living there. I don’t want to live in an idea, inside of a city-idea. Yet I must go there tomorrow. Without saying goodbye to Zahira. It’s my destiny. To not know how to say goodbye. I was never able to find the courage within myself to do it. I don’t know anything, or almost anything, about Zahira. She doesn’t know anything about me, either. Through this letter, she will finally learn a bit about me.

  Zahira: I know where you live, I have your email address, I will preserve within me the taste of you and your food. I will come back one day. We will see each other again. It’s fate.

  I’m on my way. Already in Stockholm perhaps. Already lost over there. As I write this letter, I ache all over. I feel as though all the maladies from my past are awakening inside me, in my body, even those I had forgotten a long time ago, in childhood. Mama, you must know them better than I do. My intestines most of all: they never leave me alone. I always had a problem with them. In the end I got used to it. But now, it’s becoming more than a problem. The suffering is enormous and unrelenting. I no longer know what to do to relieve myself. The herbs you used to give me, Mama, I won’t find them here, in this part of the world. Going to the bathroom has become hell. I’m in there for hours. I try to remember some of the things you used to do. I reen
act them on myself. I massage my stomach, my chest, and my calves the same way you used to do. It does me good, calms me down. I forget my suffering, my furious stomach, for a few moments. But the pain never stays away for very long. It will always be like that. Something distant returns, no doubt the me from before, the forgotten me, me always there, me coming back to avenge myself no doubt.

  Sorry, Mama, to speak to you like this, as in books. I’m able to understand, analyze all that happens to me, all that awaits me. But never does it help me tolerate the life that’s coming for me. Wandering. That will be my life from now on. But don’t worry, Mama. I will survive. I will carry you in me and I will survive.

  I would like to ask you a small favor. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I have no choice. You are the only person who can help me.

  I’m a little ashamed.

  You remember Samih, my friend from university? He would often come over to our house. You liked him a lot, I think. He has brown hair and green eyes. Very skinny. You would say to him all the time: “You’re too skinny, my boy. Eat! Eat!” He would smile every time. He didn’t dare respond. Once, in my bedroom, he told me to thank you with all his heart for your care and tenderness towards him. It touched him, your maternal, generous gaze. I don’t think I ever communicated those thanks to you.

  I saw Samih every day. I was more than linked to him. Through my heart. Through my love.

  Do you understand, Mama?

  I know that you understand.

  So there you have it: for the last three months, I’ve had no more news from him. He hasn’t sent me any emails. I’m worried about him. I’m afraid for him. I fear they’ve discovered our secret, intimate link, and also his participation in my political investigations for the English newspaper.

  Samih lives in Beryanak, close to a small 24/7 supermarket. His family’s house is yellow. With three floors.

  I would like for you to go to that house. For you to ring the doorbell and ask how he’s doing. You will invent a story to justify to his family your arrival at their house and, most importantly, why you want to know how he’s doing.

  Is that too much for you, to have to go knock on the door of people you don’t know and, on top of it, to lie?