An Ongoing Summer

Brigitte was cooking something in the kitchen. I could tell that François was saying something to me, but I couldn’t hear it. I was on the balcony looking at the minaret of the mosque across the street. It was decorated with red and blue lights, apparently for a religious celebration of some kind. At the time, I wasn’t feeling particularly religious. I was just looking; I’ve no idea why, exactly. When I heard François calling me, I left the balcony and went inside.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Didn’t you hear me?”

“I was looking at the minaret.”

“Don’t be funny.”

“Go pray. Maybe God will help you.”

“Do you want to pray?”

“For what?”

“For hell.”

“Why did you call me in?” I asked angrily. “Let me get some fresh air on the balcony.”

The stench of wine on his breath was disgusting, not least because it was cheap wine and I had not yet had any myself. When I’m drunk, I don’t bother how the wine smells; I don’t even notice. But when I’m not drunk, I can’t stand it. I even tell myself that drunkards must feel downtrodden and dirty. They certainly shouldn’t take to drink as a way of solving problems that can only be properly settled when one is completely sober.

“You’re drunk,” I told François. “I can’t bear jokes.”

“François,” I heard Brigitte yell from the kitchen. “Leave Hamdoun alone!”

“Are you jealous of your husband?” François asked in a hoarse voice.

“What are you saying, you filth?” I yelled.

“Sit down,” François said. “I’ll tell you a secret. Can you guess?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay then, guess.”

“You’re drunk, and you’re going to annoy me.”

“You’re wrong. Look. Unblock your ears so I can tell you. Are they open? Like this. Very good. Brigitte, my wife, is in love with you.”

“I told you you were going to upset me—and Brigitte, as well.”

“No matter,” he replied, his breath still reeking of cheap wine. “We’re both always frank; we never keep things secret from each other. She told me.”

“That she loves me.”

“Yes. You can ask her for yourself”

He called his wife. “Brigitte,” he said. “Come here and tell him yourself. My dear, we’re being totally frank with each other.”

“Stop this nonsense,” said Brigitte from the kitchen. “Leave Hamdoun alone. Let him get some fresh air.”

That suggestion was addressed more to me than to him. I stood up, walked over to the balcony and looked again at the night and the lights on the minaret. I enjoyed being scorched by the breeze, with its scents of plants and roses from the street and the public park near the house. This year, it was still hot at the end of October, and summer was extending well into November. It was very pleasant to sit on the balcony or in the park in the evening; that’s precisely what I’d been doing for the past two months. I would often buy a bottle of wine, sit on the balcony, count the stars, and imagine things faraway that might not even exist beyond those infinite horizons.

My imagination often teases me by focusing on just one thing: I create a picture of other lands and suns stretching away ad infinitum. I give my imagination free rein till the wine gets the better of me. Then I turn up the radio because I like to yell. Even when I hear someone knocking on the door, I don’t bother getting up to see who it is. That never worries me. I’m much more interested in relaxing and being intoxicated by both night and wine. Even if I was sure there was a woman on the other side of the door, it would make no difference.

Brigitte was at least twelve years older than François, whereas I was just two years older. Even so, he still looked older than me. Being with him was not all that enjoyable; nothing he told me was of much interest. I found it all a bit childish. Sometimes when he expressed an opinion, he looked at Brigitte to make sure he was right. In fact, he had no personality at all. He didn’t really love her, but she made it clear that life without him would be impossible. She loved him, or so she claimed: the kind of love that no one else in the whole world can gauge. For me, personally, I placed a good deal of value on it. In particular, I was well aware of what it meant for a woman to love a man twelve years younger than herself.

The night air was stimulating. Streetlights, evenly spaced along the street and in squares and rectangular spaces further away, provoked an endless feeling of tension inside me. I was listening to the dialogue going on behind my back, but could not make out what Brigitte was saying. As she left the kitchen, her voice grew gradually louder. As she came over to the balcony, I was still listening but did not turn round. Instead, I bent over and placed my head between my hands. I decided to ignore her, but felt a hand on a sensitive part of my body.

“Hamdoun,” I heard her say.

“Yes.”

She put her arms around my waist, and I felt a fire flare up inside me.

“He’s drunk,” she said. “Come see what a state he’s in.”

“He said you love me.”

“It doesn’t matter. Come and see. He’s flat out on the carpet. He’s started snoring.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I don’t know. I mean, he loves it when people tease him.”

“I said he’s drunk. Come and see.”

“I know he’s drunk.”

“But he didn’t have any dinner.”

“Maybe he wasn’t hungry.”

Brigitte walked past me on the balcony. Now for the first time, she had my full attention. François was really drunk. Splayed out on the carpet with his eyes closed, he lay there flat on his back with his arms by his side. He looked like a squirmy worm with long arms and crooked legs that poked out of his trousers to reveal a thick mat of blonde hair. The few veins that showed seemed almost to be moving; I could even imagine the blood coursing through them like water gushing from a pipe. I kicked him again and again, till it hurt.

“Wake up, François. Hey, let’s go to one of your favorite places.”

“He doesn’t hear you,” Brigitte said. “He can’t.”

“He isn’t drunk,” I said. “Maybe he needs some sleep.”

“You’re talking as if you don’t know him. Haven’t you two gotten drunk together many times?”

“But I’ve never seen him like this before.”

“So now you have. I think it’s your fault.”

I looked up at Brigitte to see if she was really trying to insult me, but her eyes were warm and she looked very sensual. I realized that she did not really mean what she’d said, but was just trying to provoke me. I did not know exactly what she wanted. She tossed her slippers clear of the carpet where François was lying, and started circling around him barefoot. Her feet were tiny and her legs were certainly plump enough. At any rate, I told myself, she’s a woman, and I’m a man; sorry, he’s a man.

I shoved François again and tried to wake him. He was not asleep. Brigitte picked up the empty bottle and glass from the small table and went into the kitchen. I was about to follow her, but changed my mind. Instead, I kept prodding François with my foot. Then I tried using my hand, but to no avail. I heard him mumble something and asked him what he was trying to say. He just kept on mumbling. I picked up the word “Brigitte,” but could not make out anything else. I began to wonder if I behaved like this when I was drunk and if this is bound to happen to anyone who gets drunk. In the end, I couldn’t decide; the entire question was complex and shrouded in a kind of fog. How could I make an unfounded judgment without crystal clear evidence?

I sat down on the carpet near the spread-eagled corpse, which was still emitting pig-like noises. I thought of saying to François: “Wake up, you pig!” But then I asked myself what was the point. If I used the word “pig,” would that be enough to rescue him from this utterly regrettable situation?

I felt like asking Brigitte to get me a drink, if there was anything left in the bottle. Actually, I envied François his state of utter oblivion. How wonderful to be able to pass out and totally cancel one’s reality!

Brigitte emerged from the kitchen.

“Why are you lying on the floor?” she asked with a cough. “Are you drunk, too?”

I didn’t answer, but stayed on the carpet. My head was close to the backside of the corpse in front of me. Just then he let out a disgusting smell.

“You disgusting pig,” I said raising my head.

“What’s up?” Brigitte asked.

“Nothing.”

“Who’s the pig, you or him?”

“You,” I said.

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“You wretch! Shut up. Why don’t you just get drunk like him and shut up?”

“Give me a drink. Is there anything left in the bottle?”

“Yes. There’s poison. Do you want some?”

“Do you want to kill me?” I asked, as I sat there with the foul smell wafting all around me.

“Yes, both of you,” she replied with a laugh.

“Don’t you love me?”

“I love him, not you.”

“He said you love me.”

She didn’t answer, but from the kitchen I heard her say “pig.” I did not know which one of us she meant. I wanted to ask her, but found that I could not. There was only one thing to do. I stood up listlessly and went into the kitchen barefoot. She was bent over, searching in one of the kitchen drawers. I could not resist patting her on the backside. I expected to hear her say “pig” again, but she simply laughed.

“Stop it,” she said. “Oh, Hamdoun. He’ll wake up.”

“He doesn’t care about you.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“He’s impotent.”

“That’s none of your business either. He’s your friend. Get yourself a girlie magazine and amuse yourself.”

“I’m looking at a live magazine, one made of flesh and blood.”

“No way! Relax on the couch or go out on the balcony and look at the minaret. Today’s a Muslim festival.”

“That’s none of my business.”