Cuncan, cuncan, he thought with distaste and sighed. The women here are too liberated, as are the men. He pulled his prayer beads from his pocket and slowly rolled them around between his fingers. It would be best if Emilie avoided that cuncan — it slowed the brain and corrupted the morals. At first he was going to forbid it, but then he took pity on her and thought, if she likes it so much, let her play. What pleasure does a woman have in her life, and in her old age, no less? As was the case whenever he thought of his Emilie, a wave of love swept up his old body, which yearned for rest at the end of the road more than it craved the excitement of the moment.
Secret passions evolved with time and congealed into memories. The silhouette of Leila, the mare, rose against his tired eyes. Noble, black, agile, sleek Leila; perfect Leila, who would never grow old. Emilie is so different, the very opposite. Leila was black and Emilie is white, Leila was skinny and Emilie — round, Leila was all muscle, taut as a string, while Emilie’s flesh is soft, soft and delicate to the touch. Nevertheless, at times the two become fused in his mind. His love makes them one. And maybe it also had to do with that wild look in their eyes, Leila’s and Emilie’s. But Leila was truly wild, while Emilie’s sole wildness is in her eyes, the rest of her soft and gentle as a ewe. What would he ever do without her? When Leila died, in that strange, faraway city, he was like one of the old man’s rags. Another woman might have said, she was only a mare (only a mare!); but Emilie said nothing. Did she understand him in his tragedy? Or was she simply sensible enough and loving enough to do the right thing and leave him be, letting his grief ripen until it fell away by itself, like fruit from a tree? Or maybe she was just crudely indifferent to his fate? No, not at all. Perhaps she was lazy? Perhaps. Perhaps she was embarrassed or at a loss? Perhaps. The important thing is what she did. The important thing is, she did not force herself on him, did not make any cheap attempts to fill the void left by Leila. Emilie was one thing, and Leila was another. Each had her own special place. When one left, her absence was never filled. The old man closed his eyes and saw this black void, this emptiness, this eternity.
The beads slipped between his fingers, the touch of the cold amber making him feel peaceful. A light nap. Was this death? An old man, falling asleep in the afternoon sun, his eyes closed, his mouth open, his fingers spreading by themselves and the beads slowly falling to the carpet.
David stood before him in a sharkskin suit, white as the angel Gabriel when he showed himself to Muhammad, white as the fresh morning, blessed by Allah with a rejuvenating breeze from the sea.
Joseph shook off the sleep and bits of dream. He stood up, encouraged, and linked his arm with his son’s, whispering in his ear: “Yalla, ya ibni.”
22. UNE P
Victor and Robby stood on the balcony, their chins pressed against their arms on the cool stone and the rough, peeling plaster. They watched the two men moving away up the street: a tall young man, blinding white, his blond hair reflecting the rays of the sun as they lingered on the brilliantine; a firm but slightly hunched older man, wearing black, a red fez burning atop his head in the afternoon sun.
“Do you know where he’s taking him?” Victor whispered in Robby’s ear, his breath hot and sticky. He did not wait for an answer and added, “To une P.” Robby’s eyes told him the hint was insufficient, and so he elaborated: “Une prostituée.”
Robby had never heard that word, but his heart told him that it’s meaning lay in those moldy, mysterious corners, in the appealing, frightening world of sex. Plug your ears, hear no more. But every cell in his body thirsted for more knowledge. In a strange voice he asked, “What’s that?”
Victor’s laugh resounded like a pile of empty cans tumbling down from the balcony.
Robby regretted asking. Once more he was dragged in spite of himself into a dangerous zone. He wanted to take it back. In his mind’s eye, he once more saw his parents walking around naked, cheerfully playing games that were not suitable for adults. He hated Victor Hamdi-Ali so. Hated him and waited, waited impatiently for his words.
“A prostitute is a woman who screws for money.”
“People pay for it?”
“You bet.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t believe me. Fine, don’t believe me. But there are houses like that, there are. You go there, walk in, pay, then they put you in a room where a woman waits for you, totally naked. You take your clothes off and screw her. After you finish, you pay and leave. It’s simple.”
Robby looked back at the two men walking away. “What! You mean to tell me that your father is taking your brother to a woman like that?”
“Shh … the whole house will hear you.”
“It can’t be!”
“You’re an idiot. What do you know, anyway? You’re a baby.” He turned his back on him with ridicule.
A father taking his son to a prostitute. Would his father also come to him one day and say, “Robby, let’s go,” then take him by the hand to a big, dark house? What do those houses look like? Maybe they’re more like palaces? Rooms upon rooms, like cells in a beehive. In each cell, a naked woman. His father would motion and say, “Choose, son, the world is your oyster,” twisting his face with a small, lusty smile. The whole world is gaping, pink genitalia. He wouldn’t know what to do. His eyes would cling to his father for help. Once he almost drowned in a whirlpool in the capricious sea, in the Agami neighborhood, and thought his end was nigh, but then he felt his father’s arm grab him, ripping him away from the water’s death grip. This time, however, his father would not come to his aid. On the contrary, he’d say, “That’s it, from here on out, you’re on your own.” On his own in a small, seedy room with cobwebs and … a woman. A big, writhing woman, a womb of quicksand …
“But … why?”
Victor smiled and hugged him almost paternally. “So that he can let go of all that tension. So he can be light for his race, and win.”
A simple, satisfying explanation. Emotional pressure. Stress and nervousness before his race. A bit of entertainment (apparently, going to a prostitute is somewhat entertaining) can help release such tensions. Robby never imagined that such a release could be a basic, simple, physiological process, just like squeezing toothpaste out of the tube, and inquired no further. Not that he had all the answers now, but the serenity of the afternoon made him feel languid and sleepy. The sun sprawled out among the clouds, like a giant orange on a pile of white blankets. A light breeze caressed tired eyelids.
At the Café de la Paix, old men and women in summer garb began taking over the round white tables scattered over the sidewalk, their large, colorful sun umbrellas unable to protect the diners from the warm, diagonal rays. The elderly breathe in the wind and, with half-shut eyes, sip their Turkish coffee with creamy brown kaimak on top. Among them is a young couple, their faces tan and their arms bare, a floral dress with a cheeky neckline. A throaty voice bubbles up, like the cooing of pigeons in love. An Arab selling jasmine wreaths enters. Multiple flower necklaces hang from his neck and arms, and he pushes a reed cart full of them. From the height of the second floor, Robby becomes intoxicated with the aroma of flowers, or maybe it is his imagination, not his nose, that enjoys the scent. The young man buys some wreaths and wraps them around his girl’s neck. She laughs, her bouncing chest spraying off shreds of flowers, and the white of the jasmine sprays like sea foam over tanned curves. Waves of perfume rise again with a light wind. The breath is calm. The eyes close.