Read Online The Bridges of Constantine by Ahlem Mosteghanemi - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ahlem Mosteghanemi
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was giving him something lodged in my chest: a part of me, my other arm perhaps, or anything that had been mine, that had been me. I found consolation in his delight. He embraced me with the same old fervour, a reward for memory and for the mistaken belief that his other personality might be restored.
Here was Si Mustafa, years later, contemplating a painting of mine as I contemplated him. The other man inside him had died. How had I once put my faith in him? At that moment, the only thing he was interested in was owning one of my pictures. He might have been willing to pay any price. He was renowned for not counting the cost in such cases. He was like other politicians and nouveaux-riche Algerians who had been bitten by the art-collecting bug for reasons that mostly had nothing to do with art, but rather with their being acquisition-minded and obsessed with joining the elite.
Perhaps he was more generous with me for the very reasons that made me reject him further. He had decided to exchange that tattered identity card for an aquarelle painting he could show off. Can blood be equated to watercolour, even after a quarter of a century?
Later, I was happy to have gotten rid of him and Si Sharif without offending them and without abandoning a principle that has caused me to go hungry. I simply cannot stomach tainted bread. Some people are just born with a sensitivity to filth. Actually, I was in a hurry and wanted to be over and done with them, fearful that you might arrive while they were still there.
Caught between the feelings evoked by Si Mustafa after so many years and the exhausting obsession with your visit, I was nervous and unsettled. But you didn’t come, neither then nor later.
Where did all that subsequent depression come from? Downcast, my two legs led me heavily home after having carried me there on wings of overwhelming desire.
What if I was never to see you again? If the exhibition closed and you didn’t come back? What if your talk about coming back had just been politeness, which I had taken seriously? How then would I chase your fleeting shooting star?
Only the card that Si Sharif gave me when saying goodbye left room for hope. At last I knew the secret numbers to reach you. I fell asleep planning how to justify a telephone call that might join me with you. But when love comes, it does not seek justification or make a date. As soon as I entered the gallery the next day and sat down to read the newspaper, I saw you come in. You were coming towards me and time stood still in wonder. Love, which had often ignored me before that day, had finally decided to give me its maddest story.
Chapter Three
So we met .
You said, ‘Hi. I’m sorry. I’m a day late for our date.’
‘Don’t be sorry. You came a whole lifetime too late.’
You said, ‘How much do I owe to be excused?’
‘The worth of that lifetime!’
A jasmine sat down opposite me.
Oh, jasmine flower that has quickly opened, less perfume, my beloved, less perfume. I didn’t know that memory also has a perfume. The perfume of the homeland.
Confused and embarrassed, the homeland sat down and said, ‘Do you have any water, please?’
Constantine welled up in me.
Drink from my memory, my lady. All this nostalgia is for you. Leave me a seat here opposite you.
I sipped you at leisure, the way Constantine’s coffee is sipped. A cup of coffee and a bottle of Coke in front of us, we sat. We might not have thirsted for the same thing, but we had the same desire to talk.
In apology you said, ‘I didn’t come yesterday because I heard my uncle on the phone arranging to visit you with someone. I preferred to put off my visit till today so as not to see them.’
Looking at you with the happiness of someone who finally sees his shooting star, I replied, ‘I was afraid you wouldn’t come at all.’ Then I added, ‘But now I’m happy I waited another day for you. The things we want always come late!’ Perhaps I said more than I should
Here was Si Mustafa, years later, contemplating a painting of mine as I contemplated him. The other man inside him had died. How had I once put my faith in him? At that moment, the only thing he was interested in was owning one of my pictures. He might have been willing to pay any price. He was renowned for not counting the cost in such cases. He was like other politicians and nouveaux-riche Algerians who had been bitten by the art-collecting bug for reasons that mostly had nothing to do with art, but rather with their being acquisition-minded and obsessed with joining the elite.
Perhaps he was more generous with me for the very reasons that made me reject him further. He had decided to exchange that tattered identity card for an aquarelle painting he could show off. Can blood be equated to watercolour, even after a quarter of a century?
Later, I was happy to have gotten rid of him and Si Sharif without offending them and without abandoning a principle that has caused me to go hungry. I simply cannot stomach tainted bread. Some people are just born with a sensitivity to filth. Actually, I was in a hurry and wanted to be over and done with them, fearful that you might arrive while they were still there.
Caught between the feelings evoked by Si Mustafa after so many years and the exhausting obsession with your visit, I was nervous and unsettled. But you didn’t come, neither then nor later.
Where did all that subsequent depression come from? Downcast, my two legs led me heavily home after having carried me there on wings of overwhelming desire.
What if I was never to see you again? If the exhibition closed and you didn’t come back? What if your talk about coming back had just been politeness, which I had taken seriously? How then would I chase your fleeting shooting star?
Only the card that Si Sharif gave me when saying goodbye left room for hope. At last I knew the secret numbers to reach you. I fell asleep planning how to justify a telephone call that might join me with you. But when love comes, it does not seek justification or make a date. As soon as I entered the gallery the next day and sat down to read the newspaper, I saw you come in. You were coming towards me and time stood still in wonder. Love, which had often ignored me before that day, had finally decided to give me its maddest story.
Chapter Three
So we met .
You said, ‘Hi. I’m sorry. I’m a day late for our date.’
‘Don’t be sorry. You came a whole lifetime too late.’
You said, ‘How much do I owe to be excused?’
‘The worth of that lifetime!’
A jasmine sat down opposite me.
Oh, jasmine flower that has quickly opened, less perfume, my beloved, less perfume. I didn’t know that memory also has a perfume. The perfume of the homeland.
Confused and embarrassed, the homeland sat down and said, ‘Do you have any water, please?’
Constantine welled up in me.
Drink from my memory, my lady. All this nostalgia is for you. Leave me a seat here opposite you.
I sipped you at leisure, the way Constantine’s coffee is sipped. A cup of coffee and a bottle of Coke in front of us, we sat. We might not have thirsted for the same thing, but we had the same desire to talk.
In apology you said, ‘I didn’t come yesterday because I heard my uncle on the phone arranging to visit you with someone. I preferred to put off my visit till today so as not to see them.’
Looking at you with the happiness of someone who finally sees his shooting star, I replied, ‘I was afraid you wouldn’t come at all.’ Then I added, ‘But now I’m happy I waited another day for you. The things we want always come late!’ Perhaps I said more than I should
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