Read Online Chaos of the Senses by Ahlem Mosteghanemi - Free Book Online
Authors: Ahlem Mosteghanemi
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one reason or another? Or was it simply because every taxi driver in Algeria insists that his male passengers sit in the front seat rather than the back, and if one of them should happen to do otherwise, he might scream in his face, ‘Listen here, brother, I’m no servant of yours!’
However, the most important question wasn’t why I was sitting behind him, but, rather (of course), why I was with him at all.
How had I ended up where I was? Had my literary curiosity led me into this bizarre adventure? Or was I running after love on a literary pretext?
How could a man who’d only spoken a few words to me bring me all this way without my even asking him who he was? It wasas though all my mental faculties had been suspended and replaced by my senses, which had stored up this man’s fragrance and made me follow him wherever he went.
At one point I nearly asked him, ‘What kind of cologne are you wearing, sir?’ Then I hesitated. It would have been madness to ask a man what cologne he used before asking him what his name was! As for asking him his name now, it would have been an affront to the dream, since a dream has no name.
And he, did he know my name? If so, which name did he know: my name, or hers? Who had he been sitting with in the cinema: with me, or with her? And with whom was he going to some unknown destination: with me, or with her?
The taxi stopped in front of the Sayyidat al-Salam Café, which lay nestled in an idyllic, elevated spot overlooking deep, deep valleys.
The driver took off, richly laden with our verbal and monetary thanks, and leaving us in the face of innumerable questions.
When the waiter came to take our order, our joint reply was, ‘We want Coke!’ or, in other words, ‘We want to be left alone!’
Then we fell silent, clearing the way for bigger questions.
I’d been expecting him to say quite a bit. However, he didn’t say anything. He just lit a cigarette and began scrutinizing me between one train of thought and another. Then, as he poured me my drink with the same hand that held the cigarette, he said, ‘Here you are at last!’
His tone conveyed a yearning or pleasant surprise that was so intense, it was as if it had to be condensed into those five words.
He seemed to be continuing a previous conversation with some other woman. Maybe it was that woman to whom he’d given nothing but his silence, and maybe it was someone else.
It perplexed me to arrive at this sort of conclusion. After all, would it make any sense for him to mistake me for her?
However, as he continued to speak, he confirmed my suspicion. He said, ‘How strange that I should have run into you in that café. If it hadn’t been for my friend, I wouldn’t have gone there!’
After a brief pause, he went on, ‘Something about you has changed since the last time I saw you. Maybe it’s your hairstyle. I like you in long hair. You know, if it weren’t for that black dress you’re wearing, I wouldn’t have recognized you.’
‘And do you know this dress?’ I asked, surprised.
‘No,’ he replied with a laugh, ‘but I know your way of wearing black, which turns it into a colour that’s glamorous rather than plain and sober.’
I didn’t know how to respond to flirtation that I didn’t think of as being intended for me.
However, going along with him in his confusion, I said, ‘As for me, I’ve got to admit: you surprised me. You’re the first man I’ve ever seen wearing black in this city, even in mourning. It’s as if men hate this colour, or are afraid of it.’
‘So what colour did you expect me to wear?’
‘I don’t know, but people around here tend to wear clothes that don’t have any colour.’
Then, after a bit of thought, I went on, ‘Your friend doesn’t seem to be from around here either.’
‘Why?’ he asked, laughing. ‘Because he wears a white shirt and white trousers?’
‘No, because he wears white with a kind of happy flamboyance, whereas everybody else in
However, the most important question wasn’t why I was sitting behind him, but, rather (of course), why I was with him at all.
How had I ended up where I was? Had my literary curiosity led me into this bizarre adventure? Or was I running after love on a literary pretext?
How could a man who’d only spoken a few words to me bring me all this way without my even asking him who he was? It wasas though all my mental faculties had been suspended and replaced by my senses, which had stored up this man’s fragrance and made me follow him wherever he went.
At one point I nearly asked him, ‘What kind of cologne are you wearing, sir?’ Then I hesitated. It would have been madness to ask a man what cologne he used before asking him what his name was! As for asking him his name now, it would have been an affront to the dream, since a dream has no name.
And he, did he know my name? If so, which name did he know: my name, or hers? Who had he been sitting with in the cinema: with me, or with her? And with whom was he going to some unknown destination: with me, or with her?
The taxi stopped in front of the Sayyidat al-Salam Café, which lay nestled in an idyllic, elevated spot overlooking deep, deep valleys.
The driver took off, richly laden with our verbal and monetary thanks, and leaving us in the face of innumerable questions.
When the waiter came to take our order, our joint reply was, ‘We want Coke!’ or, in other words, ‘We want to be left alone!’
Then we fell silent, clearing the way for bigger questions.
I’d been expecting him to say quite a bit. However, he didn’t say anything. He just lit a cigarette and began scrutinizing me between one train of thought and another. Then, as he poured me my drink with the same hand that held the cigarette, he said, ‘Here you are at last!’
His tone conveyed a yearning or pleasant surprise that was so intense, it was as if it had to be condensed into those five words.
He seemed to be continuing a previous conversation with some other woman. Maybe it was that woman to whom he’d given nothing but his silence, and maybe it was someone else.
It perplexed me to arrive at this sort of conclusion. After all, would it make any sense for him to mistake me for her?
However, as he continued to speak, he confirmed my suspicion. He said, ‘How strange that I should have run into you in that café. If it hadn’t been for my friend, I wouldn’t have gone there!’
After a brief pause, he went on, ‘Something about you has changed since the last time I saw you. Maybe it’s your hairstyle. I like you in long hair. You know, if it weren’t for that black dress you’re wearing, I wouldn’t have recognized you.’
‘And do you know this dress?’ I asked, surprised.
‘No,’ he replied with a laugh, ‘but I know your way of wearing black, which turns it into a colour that’s glamorous rather than plain and sober.’
I didn’t know how to respond to flirtation that I didn’t think of as being intended for me.
However, going along with him in his confusion, I said, ‘As for me, I’ve got to admit: you surprised me. You’re the first man I’ve ever seen wearing black in this city, even in mourning. It’s as if men hate this colour, or are afraid of it.’
‘So what colour did you expect me to wear?’
‘I don’t know, but people around here tend to wear clothes that don’t have any colour.’
Then, after a bit of thought, I went on, ‘Your friend doesn’t seem to be from around here either.’
‘Why?’ he asked, laughing. ‘Because he wears a white shirt and white trousers?’
‘No, because he wears white with a kind of happy flamboyance, whereas everybody else in
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