Montecore (5 page)

“I have discovered my life’s mission, Kadir: To hell with law! I am going to become Tunisia’s first world-celebrated photographer. With the camera I will modify the future of photography. From now on all of my life shall be sacrified this ambition. We must leave this rat hole of a city as soon as possible! Do you want to follow in my footsteps?”

I bobbed my head and served him a classic thumbs-up. With Halsman’s photos and modern soul music we projected future plans of how we would soon meet the tourist town Tabarka on the Mediterranean coast.

Write:

“In the soft fog of intoxication, the friends visualized their futures. My father’s ambition was to become an international photographer. Kadir’s ambition was to become a tourist guide or a professor of samba dancing or a billiard instructor or why not a future master of hotels. My father’s way was Art’s; Kadir’s way was Economy’s. The duo’s goals had been pronounced and the starting shot had …”

(How does one write correctly here? Been discharged? Banged? Shod? Inject correctly, please!)

What do you say about the drama in this section? Not so limited, certainly? Have some of these anecdotes been depicted by your father? Do you know why not? Me neither. I wish I knew …

Dearest greetings!

Thank your extensive message! Delightedly I read about your newfound daily life as an author.

What an atmospheric honor it must be to pass time at book fairs in Gothenburg and be invited to literary festivals for rendezvouses with intellectual giants like Unni Drougge, Katarina Mazetti, and Björn Ranelid! Because you’re being ironic when you describe yourself as a “mass-media whore,” right?

No excuses are vital to you for your served silence. I bear great understanding for the ticking unease that one can experience in the rendezvous with one’s memories. The same emotion can sometimes infect me. But we must not let the fear of memory handicap our book! Let us instead seek the response to the mysterious riddle that you identify as “like, the book’s theme.” I, too, have long heaped my soul with the question of how a father can leave his children.

My fictive hat is put off to bend and bow for your flattering words about my data. My cheeks are pleased to redness when you hail my texts as “vivid,” “fanciful,” and “extremely over-romantic.”

Here follow my responses to your questions:

Affixed you will find the describing of our rendezvous with Tabarka (and your father’s rendezvous with his first working camera).

Your refound friend,

Kadir

PS:
Your suggestion to start our book in Sweden is interesting. But not correct. Recall your father citing the Baudelaire photographer Félix Nadar: “The best portrait is made by the person one knows best.” This rule also applies to authors. How can you (and the reader) know your father’s contours and understand his later actions without the forming of his historical history? Hopefully you recognize certain patterns in your father’s life as reflections of your own. Furthermore: To form what you call “prehistory” in Proustish flashbacks requires an author of monstrous talent. Do you really bear this? You who barely manage to formulate a single e-mail free from English words or spelling errors? No, to guard chronology is my directive.

The year was 1972 when your father and I dismissed our bodies from Jendouba’s cookie factory, packed our cardboard-like suitcases, and entered a collective louage with Tabarka as its destination. Our collection of finances had borne that particular industriousness that refers to the Japanese. With the economy’s status secured for a few weeks, we were on our way toward our new lives!!!

In the next scene we have stabilized our mutual lodging in a white
paillote
, a minimal one-room house with a straw roof, which at that time was localized on the beaches of Tabarka and hired out for scanty economy. At nighttime, small lizards zoomed over the interior of the roof without ever falling down. Perhaps you can consult these lizards as symbols for our existence? (“Like lizards our duo zoomed through life under the roof without ever felling their backs against that ruin which we call the floor.”)

Your father sought a position at Tabarka’s photographic laboratory while I obtained work as a dishwasher in the kitchen at Hôtel Majestique. While I rinsed silverware and glistened glasses, your father learned the foundations of film development. The friendly (but extremely cross-eyed) master, Achraf, received Abbas as an assistant and taught him how one temperature-verifies and agitates, stops and fixes, rinses and dries. How the development is followed by the printing, the stop bath by the fix bath, and how vital it is to carefully rinse away the fixer remains so that the photos will not yellow prematurely. The utensils that were found in Achraf’s laboratory were very simple: Achraf had painted the backdrops himself and named them titles like “Modern Love,” “Classic Love,” “Love in Venice,” as well as the comic “Asterix and Obelix.” The fix bath, which professional photographers usually only employ one time, was used by Achraf until the liquid was transformed into thick porridge. Instead of light meters, Achraf relied on his ticking intuition, and instead of gloves there were hands to dip the negatives in the developing bath.

The true creation in the process was initiated when Abbas had produced the negative and Achraf presented his paint box. Here was a pointed pencil with which he darkened the negative until the portrait’s face colors became exactly light enough that the customers looked like their ideals. Here were the Japanese paper colors that Achraf cultivated in order to carefully colorize the customers’ clothes to a perfect shade. Your father drank in all this knowledge with the thirst of a dry sponge.

Your father’s time was mostly occupied by passport portraits, but sometimes touristic customers, whose negatives always mirrored one another, arrived too. The same red-scorched, smiling tourist bodies in airy linens in front of the artist district of Sidi Bou Saïd, in the souk in Tunis, outside of the ruins of Carthage. In this historical time, tourism in Tabarka was growing weakly. Only two big hotels had opened their doors and the amount of European tourists was still limited. All of today’s deluxe options like parasailing, riding banana boats, or European daily journals lay far forward in time. No boutiques yet sold stuffed camels or humoristic T-shirts with texts like “I Love Tunisia” or “My Parents Went to Tunisia and All I Got Was This Lousy T-shirt.”

Still, Tabarka’s daily life was night and day in Jendouba’s comparison. Instead of cookie packeting, our first summer in youthful freedom was a rosy time of beach parties, hashish, disco dancing, and repeated nightly visits in unfamiliar hotel rooms. Mark my words—the touristettes hung about like grape bunches with longing for our one-eyes.

Here you can inject an erotic scene where your father and I limbo oiled Belgian girls, disco-dance horny Brits, afflict French girls’ backsides, and encounter German twins in hot tubs. You can expose well-filled Portuguese girls on their knees on hotelesque balconies, perfumy mouths wide open, sucking the friends’ ecstasy while the duo toasts coconut drinks.

Does this erotic diversity sound bizarre? Perhaps you interpellate
how we could attract the touristettes’ interest? Let me explain—this epoch was widely differentiated from now. At this time “Arab” was not a denotation that was used as provocation or virus. Rather the opposite. At this time, Arabicness attracted sexual frequency! The nationality of Arab was at least as positive as … a crank organ. (Do you understand the metaphor?) Frequent were the touristettes who invited me to their nightly hotel rooms after I had praised their golden skins. Numberous were the touristettes who sighed erotic moans when your father wrote their first names with Arabic letters in the beach sand or hailed them with made-up Arabic poetry translated into French. (He usually employed Arabic nonsense phrases like “gravel is good” or “take your towel” or “your nose is very ugly” and then with a serious mouth transformed the words to amorous French translations.)

Still, our courting routines were rather separated. Where your father did his “quiet wounded striving poet who glances his sad eyes to the starry sky” with habit, I did my “enthusiastic compliment-sharing dishwasher with a great interest in poker and a wide portion of humor.”

The youthful intoxication of luxury lent its character to this fantastic time. When I remember all the erotic nights now, all the shadows of limbs, all the melting moans, and all the head-banging remorse-awakings in strange hotel rooms, I am filled with that particular joy that we can call nostalgia (or sorrow).

In the fall came the day when your father’s collected economy bought its first functioning camera: a shining black Kodak Instamatic with the form compact, the material metal, and the loading system extra-modern. How much technical information does our book require? Do you think the reader is interested in photographic data like shutter speed and aperture and genre of lens? Perhaps we should just write:

“My father invested a camera and initiated documentation of the Tabarka of the past. The
picture
rather than the
technique
was
his focus. He was in the habit of formulating himself poetically like this: What is the
picture
other than the bath plug of truth in the sandy sieving that we call the hourglass of life?”

Or we can write:

“My father’s camera bore, of course, the deluxe brand that still today is associated with the grandiosest quality:
[X]
.”

(Here you can inject the name of the camera producter who will furnish you the biggest economic advancement.)

Suddenly your father bore the camera in his constant nearness. He began to form his fingers to the negative of fantasy, made thumbs and index fingers into a box, pretend-flashed scenes, and mumbled,
“Parfait, parfait,”
to himself. He began to present himself as
“photographe artistique”
and invested a beret in French black style. In the small hours of intoxication he testified with a front of suffering about how the craft of photography had modified his soul: