Ward #36

I won’t lie to you. My father never taught me how to lie. He passed away without teaching anyone how to lie, whether to himself or anyone else. My grandfather did not know how to lie either.

He was a quiet old man who always used to sit by the tree to smoke his pipeful of kif. The tree is still standing in our yard, by which I mean the courtyard of the nuns’ school where my grandfather used to work as a guard. When he grew old, my father took his place. Now I live in a house next to the school.

Forgive me for speaking in French. I can read Arabic, but I’m used to speaking French, since I grew up at the nuns’ school. They are really good at Arabic, but they generally speak French and sometimes another language as well, probably Latin. I said I live in a house there, but not alone. Again, I won’t lie to you. I live with my mother, and I have a married brother who sometimes visits us. He comes on his own because my mother doesn’t like his wife.

That’s all there is to it. I remember how often my brother and I used to play around the tree; in summer we used to spread out a straw mat under its branches and get high on hashish. I’m not shy in front of my brother; he is just like a friend. My father and grandfather used to smoke kif by the tree trunk too. Maybe you’d be surprised if I told you that my grandfather used to bury lumps of sugar around the tree trunk and water them. I’ve no idea why he did that. When my grandfather died, my father kept doing it. Now that my own father is dead, I’m still doing it.

I wish you would come to the nuns’ school with me, to our house. Then you’d see the tree. Every evening I put sugar there and water it; I’ve no idea why. It was just my grandparents’ idea. They always had great ideas, things we didn’t understand. They knew better than we do, that’s for sure. It’s true that people used to fight a lot . . . at least that’s what I read at the library of the nuns’ school. The world has seen so many wars in which everybody died: people who fought, people who got in fights, and even people who didn’t fight at all. And you know that we’re all going to die eventually, even if it’s not by being stabbed with a knife or shot at. We’re all going to die. You can be sure of that.

I’m not lying to you. My father never taught me how to lie. That’s what he didn’t learn from my grandfather, nor did he learn it from his grandfather. There are so many liars in this life, but I’m not one of them. As proof, I told you yesterday that I had sold my bike so I could buy a golden bracelet as a present for one of my female friends who got married recently. I still have some money left. I’m going to buy two bottles of wine, and we’ll get drunk together. Actually, I don’t like getting drunk. It’s just that I like to drink, especially with someone like you. They say that drinking wine is forbidden in Islam, but I’ve watched so many people drinking!

I got used to drinking wine at the nuns’ school. They can drink, but they don’t get drunk. You have seen for yourself how Muslim women drink. They drink, then start fighting each other, smashing bottles and glasses and tossing chairs at each other’s heads. Rest assured, I’m not one of them; I could never do anything remotely like that. . . . They even fight their friends. You’re my friend, but I would never think of behaving like that. Besides, I’m always at your side. It’s true that I am taking care of that patient, but I care more about you. To be honest, there is a big difference between you and him.

He’s nice, but he’s stupid too. I get a decent salary. I’m well aware that his illness is caused by his parents’ separation. His father’s a surgeon who’s living in France now, but his mother still lives in Morocco. She swore on her grandparents’ graves that she would never go back to France. She’s a teacher with lots of friends, but I can’t even remember them all. They drink a lot; it’s almost as if the entire house is a whiskey store.

You know better than I do. Her son has stopped shooting up, but I still have to give him tranquilizers whenever he starts hallucinating. He is nineteen years old and keeps accusing me of having an affair with him. He has a Jewish girlfriend. Sometimes after I’ve given him a few pills, I kiss him just to calm him down. He falls asleep in my arms. I’m not having an affair with him, the usual kind of thing anyone could picture. You know full well that people can imagine anything, whether it’s about themselves or others. Take me, for example. Sometimes I see myself as his mother. I forget about my only son who was taken from me by his father when he left Morocco. What’s important is that my son is living with his father in the country that can provide many things for him. Don’t think I’m talking this way because I’m drunk. I’ll tell you everything. Why should I keep anything hidden? Other people can hide their own stuff if they want. To each his own life. What counts is that I have only one concern, and that’s you.

I’m not lying to you. My father never taught me how to lie. . . . I chatter too much, but you must forgive me. I keep on listening to him. He says a lot of things without actually saying anything, yet I still put up with it. You told me once that people need to be tolerant; that’s the only way of dealing with a life that none of us chose to enter. Do you remember? Of course you do. You remember everything. That’s why I love you. For sure, I’m going to teach you how to put sugar lumps around the tree trunk, then we’ll water them together, just the way my father and grandfather used to do and maybe others before them. I don’t need to say it again: we need to follow the example set by grandparents, whether they were stupid or wise. I understand you very well. You don’t like hearing the word “love,” but I do love you. You know that love isn’t affection. I feel as much affection for that young man as I do for his mother, who is busy drowning herself in alcohol. Sometimes I wonder why she’s doing it, slowly killing herself. They’ve put her in hospital many times, but she always starts drinking again. Her son managed to stop drinking and shooting up, but, as I’ve told you, I still give him a few pills and keep lulling him until he falls asleep like a docile child.

I feel for him. When my husband left me and took my only son away, I was in the same predicament. I was committed to Ward #36 in the psychiatric hospital; I overheard the doctor telling the nurse that I was psychotic. I don’t know anything about this illness. I can feel something hurting me, but I can’t tolerate anyone who doesn’t understand me, even if it’s my own fault. Think of it as a kind of egotism. But in the long run, one can still be held responsible for one’s own temperament and behavior. You told me once that there are things we can’t understand, things far beyond our mental capacities. So don’t think I’m being selfish if I happen to make a mistake and reject the idea that people cannot bear something. That’s my nature, some things are beyond my mental capacity. In the same way, the things that have pushed that young man and his mother towards addiction are beyond their mental capacity, too. I know that very well; I learned it from you. I sympathize with him just as much as I love you. I loved my husband as well, but then he did what he did.

A woman just can’t trust men—pitiful, these men! Every time she trusts one of them, he gets all puffed up like a turkey and struts around like a peacock. You’re claiming just the opposite. I’ll agree with you that what applies to men also applies to women. I used to know two cats, a male and a female, that lived in the yard at the nuns’ school. They were inseparable. However . . . another female cat showed up from somewhere—over the fence, perhaps—and the male cat fell in love with her. Do cats fall in love?! Yes, you say. I agree with you. The first female cat meowed for days, became weak and skinny, then died. Good heavens! I didn’t die when he took my son overseas. I stopped eating for a while and cried a lot. The cat meowed, and I cried.

When I met you, I forgot everything. As I told you, I was in the same situation as the young man, except that his mother is still drinking and crying all the time. She has not even tried to forget what has happened to her. She may have made some mistakes of her own, or she may have been wronged, but she hasn’t even tried to forget.

What are you saying? I can’t hear you very well. Oh, you’re saying that life itself is a mistake. So who made a mistake by creating it? Sometimes I don’t understand you. You’re also saying it’s a mistake for some people to be born. I hope I’m not one of them. As proof, I’m looking after that young man. If I hadn’t been born, who would be taking care of him? And if doctors weren’t born, who would be looking after both him and his mother? Some people, you say, are born to correct other people’s mistakes. That I can understand. But you keep insisting that life itself is all a huge mistake. It’s great to hear you talking, even if I don’t understand what you mean. Not everything that is said is understandable, but it’s still nice to hear it coming from someone you love. When we love someone, we understand things he says that would otherwise be incomprehensible. To us, at least, it all sounds nice and logical, so we try to interpret it. A lot of it sounds right.

Anyway, those are your words. Sometimes you seem unclear to me, and yet I understand you. That’s why I love you. Don’t blame me if I cry sometimes. I burst into tears whenever I remember things that previously seemed foggy in my memory. Even so, they make me cry. Sometimes I burst into tears for no reason. You have told me it’s strange, but then you have also told me many times that nothing in life is strange. I have often regretted knowing so many men before you. All they ever did was repeat the same phrases—things like, “You should be inside a home, not in the bar.”

Why are all men so much alike?! Why are you different?! You say it’s God’s will. So why does God want something for one person and not for others? You tell me that such talk is heresy. No, I’m no heretic. All I want is to know. To prove that I’m not a heretic, I am thinking of going to Mecca when I’m older; then God will pardon all my sins, won’t he? You say we’re all sinners. I haven’t done anything, so I’m the least sinful of all. Even when they put me in Ward #36, I had no idea why. They could have taken somebody else who needed tranquilizers. Of course, I needed tranquilizers as well. Whenever I take them, I manage to relax.

Can you believe I saw angels once? Have you ever seen angels? What are you saying? You tell me you’ve seen devils in human guise. Oh, my God! That’s very strange. I hope I never ever see a devil, even if it’s disguised as a human being. But I think I understand what you mean by devils. I often hear the young man and his mother saying, “Let go of me—leave me alone,” even though there’s no one there. You’re saying that actually Satan was there with them, but I didn’t see him. If I had seen him, I’d have escaped through the window or some other opening. Don’t scare me! You say he can follow me. He rebelled against God, so why can’t he chase human beings?! But I know that God is powerful. He can put Satan in a cage and keep him there till the Day of Judgment.

Listen, my dear. You’re telling me lots of things that may send me right back to Ward #36. They are beyond my capacity, and I can’t understand them. I’m not going back to Ward #36, that’s for sure. Now I’ve understood the game. I’m not crazy, so I’m not going back there. They put me there because they didn’t realize that I don’t understand them. You have to be aware of how crazy they are; otherwise they might consider you crazy too; either that, or that you’re psychotic.

Oh! As usual I’ve kept on chattering. You don’t mind my talking, do you? That’s what I like about you. I wish all men were like you and didn’t steal their wives’ children and take them away to a distant country. But it’s fine. All I can tell you now is that we’ll talk again till Death comes. I believe our destiny will be one and the same. Of that I’m sure. Actually, I’ve dreamt about it many times. You don’t believe in dreams, you say. But my father told me that dreams are mentioned in the Qur’an, and you like the Qur’an a lot. Many times you’ve told me what a wonderful book it is.

Oh good heavens! I’ve learned so much from you. Forgive me, my dear, but the talk never stops. The young man must have woken up by now. I have to give him some tranquilizers. His mother will have fallen on the floor and broken the utensils and the whiskey bottle. I must go now to put things right. It’s all beyond me. Don’t pay for what we’ve drunk. You always pay, and it’s too much for you. Goodbye. “Bye”-bye. “Fais moi une bise.” Give me a big kiss.