My left leg is asleep, there's a deafening noise around me: the sharp sound of metal and porcelain; high-pitched voices; turn around and the room seems overwhelmingly large, everywhere people are laughing and shouting and drinking, people crowding the bar, while the doors constantly open and close. The handle of the plastic bag cuts into my hand. There are some spots in my vision, making everything turn so white that I get dizzy, and when I take a step forward, I'm about to fall or sink. Is it roses? Is it paper? My dress rustles and screeches like chalk on a blackboard; a pervasive smell of wet clothes and damp wax paper cuts my nose. Then, suddenly, the boy in the last row who was always throwing small rocks is here; a rock hits and falls on the floor and it startles me. I reach out to stop myself from falling and grab hold of a man's shoulder. His face is blurry. He seems to be saying something to me while I cautiously begin to move slowly toward the stairs to the basement.
* * *
I look in the mirror. A face. Speckled, wrinkled. My eyes. A blond woman meets my gaze in the mirror. It stinks in here. My mouth, strangely thin. I splash cold water on my face, my blouse gets wet. Then I drop the watermelon. It rolls out of the bag and splits, revealing a burst of red flesh. The blond woman picks it up and hands it to me. She says something. Everything is blurry: a muddy picture, not of this world. But I can tell that I've received the watermelon. The woman puts her hand on my arm and says something else. I close my eyes and press the melon to my stomach. Fields of roses once more. Then my wedding bouquet as it is now, hanging in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen at home. I see it clearly through the flickering and snot. It's sharp and dry. The image disappears. I think about how it might feel to eat dirt.
* * *
Suddenly everything becomes completely clear. I throw the watermelon in the trash and wash my hands. I open my purse the music suddenly blasting. It's unpleasant. I have to pee. I and pull out a handkerchief. The scent of the tea cake is nauseating. I throw that out as well. Then I take the clip out of my hair, comb it with my fingers, twist it, and put it up again. It's completely clear that the steel frames he insists on wearing are ugly. He had on a different shirt this morning when I left home. And it's also clear that his hair hanging down like thin tassels from the top of his head means something particular and important about him, about his lifestyle, about his generation. About us. I've never thought about this before. When I at last sit on the toilet and pee, the relief is tremendous. On the way out I throw two coins on the bathroom attendant's saucer. She looks at me with a wry smile. It seems like she's spent far too many years down in the dark, where all that's revealed is a fraction of what there is. I place my yellow tulips before her on the table. Then I walk up and out into the dark.
WOUNDS
On my first day in the city I couldn't get enough of walking around. As soon as I had checked into the hotel and set my suitcase down in my room — which turned out to be better than expected, spacious, with a large window overlooking the street, a good bed, thick green carpeting, and a comfortable distance between the bed and the bathroom, which neither smelled nor looked dingy — I decided to stay outdoors for the rest of the day. Elated by the quality of the room, but also by the fine weather, I set out for the city's snaking labyrinth of alleys and narrow passageways and steps. It's no secret that the city is set on a mountain slope, and I enjoyed these ascents and descents, the way the city constantly changed character depending on the height you viewed it from. The city — bathed in sunlight and a dry haze — reminded me in a moving and visceral way how everything depends on who is doing the observing and where you are observing from, and I thought: This is so incredibly banal, and yet it's so important.
I bought a red scarf in the bazaar. I looked at the chickens and ducks in small cages awaiting their uncertain fate, most likely to be murdered and roasted, chewed and digested, eventually ending up on the ground or in a porcelain bowl in a completely different state. I drank tea from small decorative glasses. I ate cakes dipped in honey. Then later, at a more refined restaurant, spiced lamb and rice. My hunger was satiated in every way. I climbed the narrow steps, and continued to ascend, while sweat broke out on my back under the thin shirt. I made it all the way up to the enormous mosque that rose in the air in an austere and closed monument, but also as something ethereal and free, and the sight of it made me think of how between the two poles, these two ideals, we seek to unfold our lives. But I have, I thought with a joy verging on euphoria, I have, saying it slowly to myself, united these opposites in an action that has given me both control and freedom. Fascinated to no end by one thing after another: The spicy scent of the flowers and wild herbs growing all over between rocks and asphalt; the men's dark faces and the whites of their eyes that the irises swim in; glimpses of a bare foot or a hand sticking out of a woman's concealing garments; the ancient, thick walls of the buildings. Even the conspicuous poverty moved me because it made me aware of something significant: Life unfolds in different ways, but it's always life; I was in need of such a consolation, partly for personal reasons, because I am not without guilt, but also for the simple reason that those of us who live in extreme wealth fear death and personal decline to an extent that's in sharp contrast to our proven long life span and the multitude of medical advancements and miracles. Such were the thoughts running through my head while I sat, pleasantly exhausted and filled with new impressions, enjoying a drink in a smaller open square in the shadow of a large acacia tree. No breeze stirred. The dull heat of the afternoon vibrated in the air. A couple of children played with marbles. A man was loading vegetables into a pickup. And even though I felt a little like I was being watched since the people higher up could easily see me without me necessarily being able to see them, I felt entirely free of the troubles that I'd been suffering for a long time.
* * *
Back at the hotel I took a cool bath late in the evening, carefully washing the wounds and swellings that I had received over the upper part of my body. I changed the bandages covering the deep gash on my right hand, and then I got dressed. I opened the window and inhaled the scents from the dark night, listening to the cicadas and the exotic sounds from the city, and got a sudden craving for a drink.
The bar was nearly empty, a sleepy waiter was reading the paper and drinking a cup of coffee, a middle-aged woman was sipping her whiskey and smoking a thin cigarette. A young man was sitting at a table lost in thought, staring at the large air conditioner on the ceiling that was humming weakly. I ordered dark rum and sat down at the bar. The woman looked over at me and nodded with a smile, lighting a new cigarette. The waiter poured my rum, put on Frank Sinatra, and began polishing the glasses. The rum was good and strong. And I smiled to myself when Sinatra sang "I did it my way" with his soft, unrelenting voice, and I thought, yes, that's what I'm doing too, that's what I've done, I've taken matters into my own hands, in my own way. There was something comical about it. The whole wretched business. And whether or not the lightly tanned woman with pretty pinned-up hair wearing an elegant short black silk dress had gotten the impression that I had smiled at her, I can't say for sure, but in any case she struck up a conversation with me. She was English and lived in London, or more precisely, Kensington, and had recently lost her husband. She spoke beautiful English and confided in me that she had traveled here to get a change of scenery and to make a fresh start. I understood, it was the same for me — change of scenery, fresh start — and she smiled, relieved, touching her pearls. I said this is usually why people travel to distant places, and she gave a little nervous laugh and stirred the blue plastic stick around in her glass. Then we sat a while in silence, I finished my drink, but when I got up to go, she grabbed my sleeve and looked at me with clear shiny eyes. "Sometimes my husband was a real bastard to be around. Do you understand? A real bastard." Then she withdrew her hand shyly, and I thanked her for her pleasant company and left. When I lay down in the spacious bed under the white sheet and felt my heavy naked body completely relax, I suddenly laughed. I chuckled and laughed out loud to myself and couldn't stop. "Do you understand? A real bastard."