There is a certain kind of feeling, which no doubt everyone has experienced or heard about. It is the feeling that the other person across from you shares the same satisfaction and the same readiness. There is an aspect of silent, mutual understanding, and the other person is waiting for the right moment to begin building the relationship.
The additional thought came to me that my father was aware of the matter, given things he had suggested or joked about with one of us while the other was nearby. Deep down, he may even have been wanting it and planning for this relationship to happen.
For the whole seven hours to Barcelona, the lion’s share of my reflection went to Fatima and to remembering details from the previous night. Far fewer were my memories of Aliya, which wove through my other thoughts and would usually overpower me whenever the train passed near water: a river, a lake, the sea.
Meanwhile, there was a single thought that I expelled from my thoughts as often as it pushed itself to the front of the line. That was my father’s decision to fulfill his oath. That oath had brought him here with a goal, namely, to insert the remaining bullet from that youth’s revolver into the anus of this diplomat in the Iraqi embassy; that is, the very same anus.
I felt a severe difficulty in swallowing this thought. It seemed so incomprehensible to me, at least after the marks that ten years of experience in the West had left upon me. I could only see it as a kind of recklessness and an inhuman cruelty, a sick behavior leading to disastrous results. How could I divert my father from it, when it was his goal and the vow he swore on the holy book in front of Grandfather?
I wasn’t able to think clearly about the matter, and I didn’t see an obvious method for dealing with my father since this issue was so central to his life, his thought, and his determination. So I turned my mind back to remembering some of the specific recommendations that my father had given for this mission of mine with Rosa. He had spoken a lot, but I was content to focus on the essentials, which were that I buy her a bouquet of large, white jasmine flowers from a shop close to her house. I was to bring them to her after attaching the card that he had written on and folded up. I had used the interlude of his writing the card to read a book, not feeling any curiosity to see what he was composing. Nor had I cared much about memorizing the details of what he wanted me to say to her. I would let the meeting and the conversation proceed spontaneously since all that he wanted was that she be convinced and come back to him. Therefore, if she wanted that deep down, there was no need for much talk, and likewise if she had decided in her heart to leave him.
So I decided to be content just to say things with the purpose of getting her to come back. That idea would be my guide for the natural direction of our conversation. The only thing I had to do was bring her a jasmine bouquet and ring the doorbell of her house at the address which he had written for me. I wasn’t nervous, nor did I feel any uncertainty about how to interact with her. Indeed, I had a strange confidence, or something like that. It was as though we knew each other well. Perhaps that feeling came from how well I understood the Spanish personality and culture in general. Or maybe a certain coldness and nonchalance on my part, if I can put it like that. Many who know me describe me that way. I sometimes think that it’s due somehow to Aliya’s effects upon me.
In any case, I knew where I was going in Barcelona perfectly since I’d spent two weeks there during last year’s summer vacation. It had drawn me in with its mixture of ethnicities as well as buildings. The extremely old and the extremely modern lived side by side, regardless of when they were established. And the festive atmosphere of Las Ramblas Boulevard, which was always a delight to walk up and down, day and night — I’d go between one end leading to the sea and the other leading to the crowds in the vital city center.
What I liked most about Barcelona were the two things that in my opinion are the legs upon which this city’s surprising and attractive personality stands. These are the sea and the imprints of its genius, Gaudí. I spent days there, never bored, drawn in by what could be described as an expansiveness, an enormity, a richness, or a universality that leads you with a jolt or a soothing playfulness to touch both sides of the existential anxiety. Something gives you the sense of interacting with nature in its vastness. Indeed, as a whole, the city seems to form a majestic cosmos in and of itself, and not just be part of one.
Barcelona also has a spirituality, inspiring its visitors with the extent of its varied, uninterrupted history. It takes you in and recognizes you as family in some way, by the strength of its life, its greatness, its sweetness, and its festivity. I wonder what my father likes in Barcelona.
I arrived at four in the afternoon. My only luggage was the shoulder bag that I usually carry, in which I had packed some books to read, a notebook and paper, pens, Kleenex, a pack of cigarettes, and a small comb. That made me the first one off the train. I headed straight for the train station’s bathrooms, where I emptied my bowels, my bladder, and my nose. I washed my hands and face with cold water, and I put water on my hair, running my hands back and down to my neck. Then I took my little comb out of the pocket of my bag and fixed the hair on my head, my eyebrows, and my mustache. I left the bathroom feeling alert and refreshed.
I took a taxi in the direction of Rosa’s address. But once there, I didn’t ring the doorbell at the front of her building. Instead I headed directly to the flower shop, which I found just as my father had described it. I bought a bouquet of jasmine flowers and slid the card out from between the pages of my book. I asked the young shopkeeper to tie it to the jasmine bouquet, which she did with an elegant, colorful thread.
After that, I went to the café next door, where I called Rosa. She was shocked by the surprise and said she would come immediately. I selected a table for us by the window, near a small glass fountain. The surface of the water was distorted by light from multicolored lamps submerged at the bottom. I ordered a café con leche, which I sipped as I smoked and stared through the window at the door to Rosa’s apartment building.
Rosa came out. She was wearing a white dress with a collar decorated by pink ribbons. On her arm she carried a purse that resembled a basket because it was made of dried plant leaves — perhaps hemp or palm fronds?
Rosa was tall and voluptuous, with blond hair that flashed in the light of the late-afternoon sun. She swung it from side to side as she watched for traffic and hurried straight across the street, without going to the pedestrian crosswalk. She came closer, moving quickly, her ample breasts bouncing under a white bodice and two necklaces. One necklace had silver beads and the other’s were a yellowish white, bone colored or else actually made of bone. Whoever saw her would never suspect she was nearly fifty. And here is her perfume coming through the door before her. She greeted the café workers. It was clear they had known each other for a long time. Then she looked around for me. I lifted my arm to wave to her, and she rushed over. We embraced.
She sat down across from me, unable to contain her joy, which she emphasized by repeating, “What a surprise! My goodness, what a lovely surprise!”
The waiter come over and asked, “The usual?”
She nodded to him and continued telling me how happy she was. I hastened to push the bouquet of flowers over to her, which I had put on the seat next to me. They made her gush, “Ooh la la, how beautiful! Thank you so much, Saleem!”
“Don’t thank me,” I said to her, “Thank the one who sent them. He wrote the card.”
Her fingers tore open the envelope and then the card, which had more than one fold. When she lifted the cover, it began to play softly the music of “Happy Birthday to You.”