“I didn’t ask you for anything.”
“I’m your wife, in case you forgot. I’m supposed to be sharing your life.”
“Not my past. And that’s where I’m having all my problems. Believe it or not, it’s not easy at all. You don’t slam the door on your past just like that. You try to get far away from it, and all you have to do is turn around to find it latching on to you. If you really want to make yourself useful, put a zipper on your mouth and get lost. That way, at least, there’s no danger of your coming out with any more crap like that. In case you’ve forgotten, I’ve just come back from a really distant place. I fought a war, for God’s sake! And just so you know, war is no fun at all… I guarantee it. Once they hit you deep down there where it hurts, it’s impossible to come out of it fully intact. You can’t look at the world with the same eyes anymore. You turn right, you turn left, there’s no way to keep track of the hundreds of ghosts you leave behind in your wake. I tried, however. God knows how many times I closed my eyes so tight my temples cracked. Nothing doing. In the darkness, in bright daylight, wherever you go, wherever you retire to, they’re there, stubbornly lodged in your memory banks, desperately hitched to your guts. I feel that even if I were to burn a hole through my brain or immolate myself with a flame-thrower, I wouldn’t be able to get rid of them. And all the guilt in the world could never reconcile you with them. It’s true, I did really rotten things-evil, unspeakable acts-but I’ve repented, for goodness’ sake! I’ve asked for forgiveness… what good does it do? Nothing… yet, at the time, I was convinced that I was on the right side, that I was fighting for a noble cause. I had decided to sacrifice my life for an Islamic state. I had faith! I dreamed of a pure race, of a colossal nation, of an unbeatable empire, handsome and strong like a god; I dreamed of a sterilized planet that was finally rid of its vermin, its lowlifes, its freaks; a splendid society with its sublime men, with purified gazes, with faces so radiant they looked like summer suns. I wanted to contribute to that glorious goal, make myself useful instead of drying up hanging around street corners, harassing passersby and acting like a smart-ass all the time. Can you imagine? A race of kings, a community of the just, and me, valiant, courageous, proud of my commitments to eternity. No one ever offered me such a fabulous proposition; I never thought I was up to such a task.”
His wife is moved. She tries to calm him down.
“Don’t touch me!” He pushes her away in disgust. “You’ve got nothing to say to me. Someone who hasn’t fought a war can’t possibly understand what I’m talking about.”
He goes back to the bathroom. He spits, and the faucet lets out a long whistling sound. Suddenly, a reddish streak streams down from it; effervescent blood floods the sink and starts cascading onto the tiles with an unbearable hissing sound.
Abou Seif takes a few steps backwards. He’s incredulous. Blood flows in all directions, splatters all over the walls, squirts with increasing volume, and even reaches the ceiling… Terrified, Abou Seif holds his head in his hands and starts screaming, shrieking…
“I’m here, dear. Abou Seif, Abou Seif, wake up. It’s just a dream.”
Abou Seif wakes up. He’s in bed. In a state of shock. A wrinkled blanket is wrapped around his waist, dripping with sweat. His entire body is shivering and his teeth chatter uncontrollably with a strange intensity. He climbs out of bed, determined to put an end to all of this, rushes towards the bathroom but stops in his tracks, stunned by the immaculate whiteness of the walls.
He rubs his eyes, vigorously, furiously.
His wife is right behind him and takes him by the shoulders. He recoils in horror, as though he has just been electrocuted.
“Darling, it’s only me.”
“You scared me.”
Abou Seif is at the end of his rope when he finally weakens and bursts into tears. His wife takes his head and rests it tenderly against her shoulder.
“I can’t take it anymore…”
“It’ll be okay, dear.”
“What the hell do you know?” he screams, pushing her away from him.
The rest of his cries are choked by a gurgling sound. His wife’s physiognomy has changed. The woman who is holding him in her arms is somebody else: an old Bedouin woman. She is small and haggard. Her face is decorated with sinister tattoos.
“Who are you?”
The stranger tries using her hands to tell him that she is unable to speak.
“Where do you come from, you…?”
She raises her chin all of a sudden: Her throat has been slit from one end to the other.
Abou Seif cries out, and retreats behind his hands. As he reopens his eyes, his wife is lying on the floor. The stranger has vanished. The only sound comes from some clear and bizarrely troubling water streaming from the faucet.
“This is not happening. Nora, this is absurd… absurd…”
His uncertain fingers sift carefully through the sleeper’s red hair, touch her forehead, and stop dead in their tracks. Immobilized. Nora is ice cold. Abou Seif falls over. The walls disappear. He’s on a street.
“What’s this carnival all about? I’m really losing it.”
The streetlamps twinkle. A voluminous moon emerges from the opaqueness, as white as a punctured eyeball. Anarchistic noises invade the silence; the grumbling intensifies and spreads throughout the night; Duhv! duhv! duhv!… the ground is vibrating. At the end of the street, first in little groups, then in large regiments, hundreds of mutilated, bloodied kids come forward, in tatters, then women and old men, emaciated shepherds with their flocks, with faces so pallid that they seem almost phosphorescent…