two contemporary pieces. Old bracelets and jewellery have been reduced to baubles taken on and off in an instant. History and memory have been reduced to a couple of pages in textbooks, and Arabic poetry to one or two names.
I didn’t blame you. We belong to countries that don memory only on special occasions; between one news broadcast and another. As soon as the lights go out and the cameras leave, they take it off again, like a woman removing her finery.
As if apologising for an unintentional mistake, you said, ‘If you want me to, I’ll wear that bracelet for you. Would that make you happy?’
What you said surprised me. The situation was a bit sad, despite its spontaneity. Perhaps it was sadly funny: I was offering you my paternal feelings while you were offering your maternal ones. A girl who might have been my daughter was, without realising, turning into my mother!
I could have answered you then with one word that encapsulated all the contradictions of that scene and all the intense – and shy – feelings I had for you. But I said something else. ‘That would make me happy, but I’d also be happy if you wear it for your own sake.
‘You have to be aware that you’ll understand nothing of the past you’re seeking, nor the memory of a father you didn’t know, if you fail to internalise Constantine and her customs. We don’t uncover our memories by looking at a postcard, or a beautiful painting like this one, but when we wear them and live them.
‘That bracelet, for example. I instantly had an emotional relationship with it. Without my knowing it, it symbolised motherhood for me. A fact I only discovered the day I saw you wearing it. If you hadn’t, all the feelings it aroused would still be lying dormant in the labyrinth of forgetting. Do you get it now? Sometimes memory needs waking up.’
What a fool I was. Without realising, I was waking up a genie that had been sleeping for years. In febrile madness I was turning you from a young woman into a city. You listened with the wonder of a pupil, accepting my words as if in a hypnotic trance.
That day, I discovered my power to tame you and control your burning fire.
I decided that I would turn you into a city, towering, proud, authentic, deep, unassailable by dwarfs or pirates.
I sentenced you to be Constantine.
I sentenced myself to madness.
We spent more time together that day. We parted reeling psychologically, drained by the extreme emotions resulting from four hours of non-stop talking. Accompanied at times by stubborn tears or disturbing silence, we had said a lot.
Perhaps seeing you cry for the first time had made me happy. I despised people who didn’t cry. I felt they were either tyrants or hypocrites, and in either case didn’t deserve respect.
You were the woman I wanted to laugh and cry with. That was the most wonderful thing I discovered that day.
I remembered that our first date started with unplanned laughter. That day, I remembered the saying, ‘The quickest way to win a woman is to make her laugh.’ I’ve won her without trying, I thought. Now I’ve realised the stupidity of that saying. It encourages quick victory and behaviour where it doesn’t matter if the woman you made laugh to begin with cries afterwards.
I didn’t win you after a fit of laughter, but when you cried in front of me as you listened to your story that was also mine. At the moment you looked at that painting, clearly affected. Perhaps you were about to kiss me on the cheek or hug me in a moment of sudden tenderness. But you didn’t. We parted as usual with a handshake, as though fearful that a peck on the cheek might ignite the dormant volcano.
We understood each other in complicit silence. Your presence awoke my masculinity. Your perfume drove me wild and lured me towards madness. Your eyes, even when dripping sadness, disarmed me. Your voice. Ah, your voice that I loved so much. Where did you get it? What was your language? What your
I didn’t blame you. We belong to countries that don memory only on special occasions; between one news broadcast and another. As soon as the lights go out and the cameras leave, they take it off again, like a woman removing her finery.
As if apologising for an unintentional mistake, you said, ‘If you want me to, I’ll wear that bracelet for you. Would that make you happy?’
What you said surprised me. The situation was a bit sad, despite its spontaneity. Perhaps it was sadly funny: I was offering you my paternal feelings while you were offering your maternal ones. A girl who might have been my daughter was, without realising, turning into my mother!
I could have answered you then with one word that encapsulated all the contradictions of that scene and all the intense – and shy – feelings I had for you. But I said something else. ‘That would make me happy, but I’d also be happy if you wear it for your own sake.
‘You have to be aware that you’ll understand nothing of the past you’re seeking, nor the memory of a father you didn’t know, if you fail to internalise Constantine and her customs. We don’t uncover our memories by looking at a postcard, or a beautiful painting like this one, but when we wear them and live them.
‘That bracelet, for example. I instantly had an emotional relationship with it. Without my knowing it, it symbolised motherhood for me. A fact I only discovered the day I saw you wearing it. If you hadn’t, all the feelings it aroused would still be lying dormant in the labyrinth of forgetting. Do you get it now? Sometimes memory needs waking up.’
What a fool I was. Without realising, I was waking up a genie that had been sleeping for years. In febrile madness I was turning you from a young woman into a city. You listened with the wonder of a pupil, accepting my words as if in a hypnotic trance.
That day, I discovered my power to tame you and control your burning fire.
I decided that I would turn you into a city, towering, proud, authentic, deep, unassailable by dwarfs or pirates.
I sentenced you to be Constantine.
I sentenced myself to madness.
We spent more time together that day. We parted reeling psychologically, drained by the extreme emotions resulting from four hours of non-stop talking. Accompanied at times by stubborn tears or disturbing silence, we had said a lot.
Perhaps seeing you cry for the first time had made me happy. I despised people who didn’t cry. I felt they were either tyrants or hypocrites, and in either case didn’t deserve respect.
You were the woman I wanted to laugh and cry with. That was the most wonderful thing I discovered that day.
I remembered that our first date started with unplanned laughter. That day, I remembered the saying, ‘The quickest way to win a woman is to make her laugh.’ I’ve won her without trying, I thought. Now I’ve realised the stupidity of that saying. It encourages quick victory and behaviour where it doesn’t matter if the woman you made laugh to begin with cries afterwards.
I didn’t win you after a fit of laughter, but when you cried in front of me as you listened to your story that was also mine. At the moment you looked at that painting, clearly affected. Perhaps you were about to kiss me on the cheek or hug me in a moment of sudden tenderness. But you didn’t. We parted as usual with a handshake, as though fearful that a peck on the cheek might ignite the dormant volcano.
We understood each other in complicit silence. Your presence awoke my masculinity. Your perfume drove me wild and lured me towards madness. Your eyes, even when dripping sadness, disarmed me. Your voice. Ah, your voice that I loved so much. Where did you get it? What was your language? What your
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