Read Online Chaos of the Senses by Ahlem Mosteghanemi - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ahlem Mosteghanemi
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this city wears it to show how pious they are.’
He smiled and said, ‘My friend isn’t really happy. He just has an extravagant way of showing his sadness, that’s all. White, for him, is actually the equivalent of black!’
Seeing my confusion, he continued, ‘The colour white is a kind of optical illusion. Didn’t you know that?’
‘No,’ I said apologetically, ‘I didn’t.’
I sank into a moment of silence.
How was I supposed to carry on a conversation with a man who appeared to be as insincere in his show of happiness as his friend was extravagant in his show of sadness?
And I, who’d turned up by coincidence in a black dress, how could I justify my appearance when I’d never connected with the colours of things?
Trying to get off the subject of colours lest I expose my ignorance in this area, I said, ‘Isn’t it amazing the way our relationship started in the dark? Ever since that day I’ve wanted to shine some light on this story!’
‘But we didn’t meet in the dark,’ he replied with a smile.
I nearly asked him, ‘So where did we meet?’ However, it would have seemed strange to ask a question like this, and it would have exposed me in the event that he thought I was ‘her’.
So I tried to lure him into a confession of sorts. I said, ‘I love stories about people coming together. In every meeting between a man and woman there’s a miracle, something that transcends both of them and that places them in the path of a single lightning bolt. That’s why, even after they break up, lovers go on being captivated by the beauty of their first meeting, because it produced a state of rapture that can neverbe repeated, and because it’s the only pristine reality that survives love’s destruction.’
I expected him to describe some rendezvous or tell me a story. Instead, he said, ‘All beginnings to love are wonderful. But the most wonderful of them is ours.’
‘Really?’ I said, feigning surprise.
‘Of course,’ he replied, ‘since it’s a miracle that repeats itself every time we see each other.’
And that was all he said. However, his statement led me to the conclusion that we must have met before that film showing. But where, and how? These were questions he didn’t seem prepared to answer. He’d entered into a state of silence, placing between us declarations as opaque as a cloud of smoke.
I studied him for a while as he sat there distracted from me by thoughts of us, or of her.
I broke the silence with the first thought that crossed my mind.
I said, ‘A man who wears black puts distance between himself and others. So there are questions I don’t dare ask you, however simple they might be. You don’t seem to like questions.’
‘Who said I didn’t like questions?’ he asked abruptly, seemingly taken aback.
For a minute I thought I’d made a mistake. But then he continued, ‘I like big questions, scary questions that don’t have any answers. As for nosy, naïve questions, they irritate me, and I think they irritate other people, too.’
‘So how do you answer the questions people around you ask?’
He took a deep drag on his cigarette as though he hadn’t expected my question. Then, with a touch of derision, he replied,‘People? The only questions they usually ask are stupid ones, and they force you to give them answers as stupid as their questions. They ask you, for example, what work you do, not what you would have liked to be. They ask you what you own, not what you’ve lost. They ask you about the woman you married, not about the one you love. They ask you what your name is, not whether this name suits you. They ask you how old you are, not how much of your life you’ve actually lived. They ask you what city you live in, not what city lives in you. They ask you whether you pray, not whether you fear God. That’s why I usually respond to questions like these with silence, because when we don’t say anything, we force people to correct
He smiled and said, ‘My friend isn’t really happy. He just has an extravagant way of showing his sadness, that’s all. White, for him, is actually the equivalent of black!’
Seeing my confusion, he continued, ‘The colour white is a kind of optical illusion. Didn’t you know that?’
‘No,’ I said apologetically, ‘I didn’t.’
I sank into a moment of silence.
How was I supposed to carry on a conversation with a man who appeared to be as insincere in his show of happiness as his friend was extravagant in his show of sadness?
And I, who’d turned up by coincidence in a black dress, how could I justify my appearance when I’d never connected with the colours of things?
Trying to get off the subject of colours lest I expose my ignorance in this area, I said, ‘Isn’t it amazing the way our relationship started in the dark? Ever since that day I’ve wanted to shine some light on this story!’
‘But we didn’t meet in the dark,’ he replied with a smile.
I nearly asked him, ‘So where did we meet?’ However, it would have seemed strange to ask a question like this, and it would have exposed me in the event that he thought I was ‘her’.
So I tried to lure him into a confession of sorts. I said, ‘I love stories about people coming together. In every meeting between a man and woman there’s a miracle, something that transcends both of them and that places them in the path of a single lightning bolt. That’s why, even after they break up, lovers go on being captivated by the beauty of their first meeting, because it produced a state of rapture that can neverbe repeated, and because it’s the only pristine reality that survives love’s destruction.’
I expected him to describe some rendezvous or tell me a story. Instead, he said, ‘All beginnings to love are wonderful. But the most wonderful of them is ours.’
‘Really?’ I said, feigning surprise.
‘Of course,’ he replied, ‘since it’s a miracle that repeats itself every time we see each other.’
And that was all he said. However, his statement led me to the conclusion that we must have met before that film showing. But where, and how? These were questions he didn’t seem prepared to answer. He’d entered into a state of silence, placing between us declarations as opaque as a cloud of smoke.
I studied him for a while as he sat there distracted from me by thoughts of us, or of her.
I broke the silence with the first thought that crossed my mind.
I said, ‘A man who wears black puts distance between himself and others. So there are questions I don’t dare ask you, however simple they might be. You don’t seem to like questions.’
‘Who said I didn’t like questions?’ he asked abruptly, seemingly taken aback.
For a minute I thought I’d made a mistake. But then he continued, ‘I like big questions, scary questions that don’t have any answers. As for nosy, naïve questions, they irritate me, and I think they irritate other people, too.’
‘So how do you answer the questions people around you ask?’
He took a deep drag on his cigarette as though he hadn’t expected my question. Then, with a touch of derision, he replied,‘People? The only questions they usually ask are stupid ones, and they force you to give them answers as stupid as their questions. They ask you, for example, what work you do, not what you would have liked to be. They ask you what you own, not what you’ve lost. They ask you about the woman you married, not about the one you love. They ask you what your name is, not whether this name suits you. They ask you how old you are, not how much of your life you’ve actually lived. They ask you what city you live in, not what city lives in you. They ask you whether you pray, not whether you fear God. That’s why I usually respond to questions like these with silence, because when we don’t say anything, we force people to correct
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