Read Online The Bridges of Constantine by Ahlem Mosteghanemi - Free Book Online
Authors: Ahlem Mosteghanemi
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us and I respected her way of life. I didn’t try to make her into a clone of me. Maybe I actually loved her because she was so completely different. There’s nothing more beautiful than meeting your opposite. Only that can make you discover yourself. I confess I was indebted to Catherine for many of my discoveries. In the end, the only things that got me together with this woman were mutual desire and a shared passion for art. That was enough for us to be happy together.
Over time, we became used to not annoying each other with questions or musings. In the beginning I found it hard to adjust to this type of emotion that had no place for jealousy or possessiveness. Then I found there were many good things about it. Most importantly, freedom and no commitments to anybody.
We would meet once a week, or a few weeks might pass without us seeing each other. But we always met with shared longings and desire.
Catherine would say, ‘We mustn’t kill our relationship through habit.’ So I made an effort not to get used to her. Just to be happy when she came by, and to forget she’d been there once she’d left.
This time I wanted to get her to spend the whole weekend with me, and was happy that she was eager to accept. In fact, I was afraid to be alone with the clock on the wall, waiting for Monday. Although Catherine stayed with me till Sunday evening, it seemed a long time, perhaps longer because she was there. All of a sudden I started hurrying her to leave, as if then I’d be alone with you.
I was only thinking about one question. What would I say to you when we were alone together on Monday? Where would I begin the conversation? How would I tell you that incredible story of ours? How would I seduce you to return, to hear the rest of it?
On Monday morning, for our potential date, I put on my best suit, picked a matching tie, dabbed on my favourite cologne and headed for the gallery at around ten o’clock. I had plenty of time to drink a morning coffee in a café nearby. You wouldn’t come any earlier – the gallery didn’t even open until ten.
I was the first person to enter the gallery that morning. There was a vague hint of depression in the air. The spots weren’t directed at the paintings, and the ceiling lamps were unlit. I glanced rapidly at the walls. My paintings were waking up like a woman – unadorned, without make-up or restoration in the naked truth of morning – a woman yawning on the walls after a boisterous night.
I went over to the small painting Nostalgia and inspected it closely, as if inspecting you. ‘Good morning, Constantine. How are you, suspension bridge? You, my sadness, suspended for a quarter-century.’ The picture responded with its usual silence, but with a slight wink on this occasion. I smiled conspiratorially. We understood each other, me and the painting – kinfolk understand at a wink, as they say. It was a kindred painting, proud and authentic like its painter, understanding at half a wink.
I then distracted myself with some tasks put off from the day before – another way to gain time and be free for you later. During this, an inner voice reminded me that you were coming, and stopped me concentrating. She will come, she will come, repeated the voice for an hour or two, or more. Morning and afternoon went by, but you didn’t come.
I tried to occupy myself with meetings and everyday things. I tried to forget that I was there waiting for you. I met one journalist and spoke to another without taking my eyes off the door. I was looking out for you at every step. The more time passed, the more desperate I grew. Suddenly the door opened and in came Si Sharif.
Hiding my surprise, I stood up to greet him. I remembered a French song that starts, ‘I wanted to see your sister, but saw your mother as usual.’ He embraced me and said warmly, ‘Hello my good man. Long live the one who sees you!’ I admit that despite my disappointment, I had never felt so happy saying
Over time, we became used to not annoying each other with questions or musings. In the beginning I found it hard to adjust to this type of emotion that had no place for jealousy or possessiveness. Then I found there were many good things about it. Most importantly, freedom and no commitments to anybody.
We would meet once a week, or a few weeks might pass without us seeing each other. But we always met with shared longings and desire.
Catherine would say, ‘We mustn’t kill our relationship through habit.’ So I made an effort not to get used to her. Just to be happy when she came by, and to forget she’d been there once she’d left.
This time I wanted to get her to spend the whole weekend with me, and was happy that she was eager to accept. In fact, I was afraid to be alone with the clock on the wall, waiting for Monday. Although Catherine stayed with me till Sunday evening, it seemed a long time, perhaps longer because she was there. All of a sudden I started hurrying her to leave, as if then I’d be alone with you.
I was only thinking about one question. What would I say to you when we were alone together on Monday? Where would I begin the conversation? How would I tell you that incredible story of ours? How would I seduce you to return, to hear the rest of it?
On Monday morning, for our potential date, I put on my best suit, picked a matching tie, dabbed on my favourite cologne and headed for the gallery at around ten o’clock. I had plenty of time to drink a morning coffee in a café nearby. You wouldn’t come any earlier – the gallery didn’t even open until ten.
I was the first person to enter the gallery that morning. There was a vague hint of depression in the air. The spots weren’t directed at the paintings, and the ceiling lamps were unlit. I glanced rapidly at the walls. My paintings were waking up like a woman – unadorned, without make-up or restoration in the naked truth of morning – a woman yawning on the walls after a boisterous night.
I went over to the small painting Nostalgia and inspected it closely, as if inspecting you. ‘Good morning, Constantine. How are you, suspension bridge? You, my sadness, suspended for a quarter-century.’ The picture responded with its usual silence, but with a slight wink on this occasion. I smiled conspiratorially. We understood each other, me and the painting – kinfolk understand at a wink, as they say. It was a kindred painting, proud and authentic like its painter, understanding at half a wink.
I then distracted myself with some tasks put off from the day before – another way to gain time and be free for you later. During this, an inner voice reminded me that you were coming, and stopped me concentrating. She will come, she will come, repeated the voice for an hour or two, or more. Morning and afternoon went by, but you didn’t come.
I tried to occupy myself with meetings and everyday things. I tried to forget that I was there waiting for you. I met one journalist and spoke to another without taking my eyes off the door. I was looking out for you at every step. The more time passed, the more desperate I grew. Suddenly the door opened and in came Si Sharif.
Hiding my surprise, I stood up to greet him. I remembered a French song that starts, ‘I wanted to see your sister, but saw your mother as usual.’ He embraced me and said warmly, ‘Hello my good man. Long live the one who sees you!’ I admit that despite my disappointment, I had never felt so happy saying