The Bridges of Constantine (7 page)

She loved to see me, but always at my house or hers, discreetly, out of view. Only then did she seem happy and relaxed. Simply going out to eat at the local restaurant was enough to make her seem embarrassed and strained, her only concern being for us to go home. When I knew she was coming I would buy enough food to last a day or two. I no longer argued with her or made any suggestions. It was much easier for me that way. Why bother arguing?

Holding on to my arm and looking at the paintings, all of which she knew, Catherine said in a slightly louder voice than usual, ‘Bravo, Khaled. Congratulations. It’s great, darling.’

I was a little taken aback. The woman was speaking as if she wanted others to know she was my friend or girlfriend or the like. What had suddenly caused her behaviour to change? Was it the sight of the crowd of artists and journalists who had come to the opening? Or had she discovered that she had been sleeping with a genius for two years without realising, and that my missing arm, which annoyed her in other circumstances, had now taken on a singular artistic dimension unconnected to the norms of aesthetics?

I realised that for the twenty-five years I had lived with one arm, it was only at exhibitions that I ever forgot my handicap. For the brief moments that people’s eyes were on my paintings, they forgot to look at my arm. Perhaps this was also the case in the first years of independence, when fighters were venerated and the war-wounded were regarded as sacred. They evoked respect more than pity. There was no need to explain or tell their story. They carried their memory in the flesh.

A quarter of a century later, I was ashamed of the empty sleeve of my suit. So I would tuck it into my jacket pocket, as though hiding my own memory and apologising for my past to all those who had no past. The missing hand unsettled them. Disconcerted. Made them lose their appetite.

The time well after the war – the time for sharp suits, luxury cars and stuffed bellies – wasn’t for me. So I was often ashamed of my arm as it kept me company in the Métro, at a restaurant or café, on a plane or at a party. I felt every time that people were waiting for me to tell them my story. All eyes were agog with the one question that was too shameful to articulate: ‘How did it happen?’

Sometimes I was saddened when I took the Métro and clung on to the strap with one hand. Above some of the seats was a sign: ‘Reserved for the war-wounded and pregnant women.’ But those seats were not for me. Some vestige of pride and honour made me prefer to stay standing, holding on with one hand. They were seats reserved for other fighters, whose war wasn’t my war, and whose wounds perhaps I inflicted. My wounds weren’t recognised there.

I was confronted with a strange contradiction: I lived in a country that respected my talents but rejected my wounds, and belonged to a nation that respected my wounds but rejected me. Which one to choose when I was the person and the wound at the same time? When I was the disabled memory of which this disabled body was only a façade?

Questions I’d never asked myself before. I would evade them by working, by continuous creation. Something inside me never slept. Something that kept painting as if spurring me on to reach this space where I would exist for a few days as an ordinary man with two arms or, to put it better, as an extraordinary man. A man who with one hand mocked the world and recast the features of things. That’s who I was in that gallery. My madness hung on display on the walls. Eyes examined it and mouths freely interpreted.

I could only smile when the contradictory comments reached my ears. I recalled a witticism of Edmond de Goncourt: ‘A painting in a museum hears more ridiculous opinions than anything else in the world!’

Catherine’s voice was low, as though addressing only me this time. ‘Wonderful,’ she said. ‘I’m seeing these paintings as though I didn’t know them. They seem different here.’

Continuing an earlier line of thought, I almost replied, ‘Paintings also have moods and feelings. They’re just like people. They change as soon as you put them in a gallery under lights!’ But I merely said, ‘Pictures are feminine in that way. They like the bright lights and dress up for them. They like us to spoil them and dust them down, sweep them off the ground and remove their covering. They like us to display them in large rooms for all to see, even if people don’t like them. They hate to be ignored, that’s all.’

She thought for a moment, then said, ‘What you’re saying is right. Where do you get these ideas? You know, I love listening to you. I don’t understand why we never have time to talk when we see each other.’ Before I could give her a convincing answer, she added, laughing and with a familiar intention, ‘When will you finally treat
me
like a painting?’

Laughing at her quick wit and boundless appetite, I said, ‘This evening, if you’d like!’

Catherine took my house keys from me and fluttered towards the door like a butterfly inside her yellow dress. ‘I’m a little tired. I’ll go on ahead,’ she said, as if she suddenly felt jealous of all those paintings hung with care on the walls which some people were still looking at. Was she really so tired? Had she suddenly become possessive? Was she jealous of me, or had she been hungry when she arrived? As usual, I didn’t try to understand her too deeply.

I just wanted her help to forget. I was happy to shorten a day or two’s waiting with her. Waiting for you! I needed a night of love after a month of loneliness running around to prepare for the exhibition.

I caught up with Catherine an hour later. I was tired for many reasons. One of them was my incredible meeting with you and the emotional turmoil I had been through that day. She said as she opened the door, ‘You didn’t wait very long . . .’

I said playfully, ‘I had an idea for a painting, so I came home quickly. Inspiration doesn’t wait long, as you know.’

We laughed.

There was a certain physical complicity between us that made us happy together, a secret unrestrained happiness legitimised by madness.

She sat on the sofa opposite me watching the news and eating a sandwich she had brought with her. I felt that she was a woman perpetually on the verge of becoming my true love, and this time – once again – she wouldn’t. A woman who survives on sandwiches is a woman with too little emotion and too much ego, unable to give a man the security he needs. That night I pretended not to be hungry. In truth, I was unable to adapt to the sandwich age. Nevertheless, I tried not to dwell on these details that irritated the Bedouin in me from the outset.

Since getting to know Catherine, I’d got used to not looking too hard for areas of difference between us and I respected her way of life. I didn’t try to make her into a clone of me. Maybe I actually loved her because she was so completely different. There’s nothing more beautiful than meeting your opposite. Only that can make you discover yourself. I confess I was indebted to Catherine for many of my discoveries. In the end, the only things that got me together with this woman were mutual desire and a shared passion for art. That was enough for us to be happy together.

Over time, we became used to not annoying each other with questions or musings. In the beginning I found it hard to adjust to this type of emotion that had no place for jealousy or possessiveness. Then I found there were many good things about it. Most importantly, freedom and no commitments to anybody.

We would meet once a week, or a few weeks might pass without us seeing each other. But we always met with shared longings and desire.

Catherine would say, ‘We mustn’t kill our relationship through habit.’ So I made an effort not to get used to her. Just to be happy when she came by, and to forget she’d been there once she’d left.

This time I wanted to get her to spend the whole weekend with me, and was happy that she was eager to accept. In fact, I was afraid to be alone with the clock on the wall, waiting for Monday. Although Catherine stayed with me till Sunday evening, it seemed a long time, perhaps longer because she was there. All of a sudden I started hurrying her to leave, as if then I’d be alone with you.

I was only thinking about one question. What would I say to you when we were alone together on Monday? Where would I begin the conversation? How would I tell you that incredible story of ours? How would I seduce you to return, to hear the rest of it?

On Monday morning, for our potential date, I put on my best suit, picked a matching tie, dabbed on my favourite cologne and headed for the gallery at around ten o’clock. I had plenty of time to drink a morning coffee in a café nearby. You wouldn’t come any earlier – the gallery didn’t even open until ten.

I was the first person to enter the gallery that morning. There was a vague hint of depression in the air. The spots weren’t directed at the paintings, and the ceiling lamps were unlit. I glanced rapidly at the walls. My paintings were waking up like a woman – unadorned, without make-up or restoration in the naked truth of morning – a woman yawning on the walls after a boisterous night.

I went over to the small painting
Nostalgia
and inspected it closely, as if inspecting you. ‘Good morning, Constantine. How are you, suspension bridge? You, my sadness, suspended for a quarter-century.’ The picture responded with its usual silence, but with a slight wink on this occasion. I smiled conspiratorially. We understood each other, me and the painting – kinfolk understand at a wink, as they say. It was a kindred painting, proud and authentic like its painter, understanding at half a wink.

I then distracted myself with some tasks put off from the day before – another way to gain time and be free for you later. During this, an inner voice reminded me that you were coming, and stopped me concentrating. She will come, she will come, repeated the voice for an hour or two, or more. Morning and afternoon went by, but you didn’t come.

I tried to occupy myself with meetings and everyday things. I tried to forget that I was there waiting for you. I met one journalist and spoke to another without taking my eyes off the door. I was looking out for you at every step. The more time passed, the more desperate I grew. Suddenly the door opened and in came
Si
Sharif.

Hiding my surprise, I stood up to greet him. I remembered a French song that starts, ‘I wanted to see your sister, but saw your mother as usual.’ He embraced me and said warmly, ‘Hello my good man. Long live the one who sees you!’ I admit that despite my disappointment, I had never felt so happy saying hello to him.

Before I had asked him his news, he presented the mutual friend who was with him. ‘See who I’ve brought with me?’

This was an additional surprise. ‘Hello
Si
Mustafa,’ I exclaimed. ‘How are you? It’s good to see you.’

Si
Mustafa embraced me in turn and said with affection, ‘How are you, sir? If we didn’t come to you, we’d never see you or what?’ Out of politeness, I asked him in turn for his news. I took the fact of
Si
Sharif’s accompanying him and excessive praise for him as proof of the rumours that he was up for some ministerial post.

Si
Sharif scolded me with an affection I found genuine. ‘My brother, is it conceivable that we both live in this city and you don’t even once think of visiting me? Two years I’ve been here, and you know my address.’

Half-serious and half in jest,
Si
Mustafa intervened, ‘Do you think he’s boycotting us? How else to explain his absence?’

I answered honestly, ‘Never! It’s just that it’s not easy for someone living in exile to pack up their things and come back. As they say, exile is a bad habit that people pick up. I’ve acquired several bad habits here.’ We laughed, and the conversation moved politely on to other subjects.

As they toured the exhibition, it was only when they stopped in front of one of the paintings that I realised
Si
Mustafa had come because he wanted to acquire a picture or two. He said, ‘I want to keep something of yours as a memento. Don’t you remember that you started to paint when we were together in Tunis? I can still remember your first paintings. I was the first person you showed your work to in those days. Have you forgotten?’

No, I hadn’t forgotten. But how I wished right then that I could have. I felt quite embarrassed as he tried to take me back to that period.

Si
Mustafa was a mutual friend of
Si
Sharif’s and mine from liberation days. He was part of the group under
Si
Taher’s command, and one of the wounded transferred with me to Tunis for treatment. He spent three months in hospital there. Then he returned to the Front, where he remained in the liberation army until independence, rising to the rank of major.

Once upon a time he had honour and believed in the struggle. I had a lot of respect and affection for him. Gradually, his balance with me dwindled, while his other balances ballooned by various means and in various currencies. He was just like those before him who had made it to lucrative positions, which they shuffled among themselves in a studied division of the spoils.

Yet he in particular interested and saddened me. He had been a comrade in arms for two whole years. Lots of minor incidents had linked us in the past, and memory, despite everything, couldn’t ignore them. Perhaps the most moving was when I was leaving the hospital in Tunis. A nurse gave me his clothes, the blood newly dried on them. In the pocket of his jacket I came across his identity card, which was barely readable through the bloodstains. I kept it to give back to him later. But he returned to the Front without knowing I had it, or perhaps without even asking after it. After all, where he was going there was no need for an identity card.