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5

Only on the drive back, when he was alone in the car with Sémiramis, did Adam say aloud what he had wished he could have said to his dead friend:

“Yes, Mourad, life would have been beautiful if there had been no war, if we were still twenty rather than fifty, if none of us had died, if none of us had betrayed, if none of us had emigrated, if our country was still the Pearl of the Orient, if we had not become the laughing stock of the world, its shame, its scarecrow, its scapegoat, if, if, if, if …”

The driver assented with a long sigh. Then she drove for several kilometres before saying:

“Tania is really keen on this idea of a reunion. She must have mentioned it ten times since this morning.”

“She talked to me about it too, over dinner. I told her that I think it’s a good idea and that I’ll do my best to make it happen. I didn’t try to discourage her. She obviously feels the need to hang on to the idea to ease her grief a little. But I wouldn’t want to give her hopes that might be disappointed.”

“You don’t think it will happen? I’m sure that most of our friends would love to meet up again, if only once before we all go to join Mourad … Personally, I would love for it to happen.”

“I’d love it too. And I’m sure that most of our friends feel the same way as you and me. But they’re scattered to the four corners of the earth, they all have jobs, families, obligations …”

“Did you manage to make a start today?”

“Yes, I’ve written to Albert and Naïm, who both replied within minutes. Albert is happy to be at the reunion, but he would prefer if it took place in Paris. As an American citizen, he is not allowed to come here …”

“That’s bullshit! In summer, half the guests at the hotel are travelling on American passports. If they’re originally from here, all they have to do is use their other passport.”

“It’s more complicated for Albert. The institute he works for has ties to the Pentagon, which means he has to respect the prohibition.”

“That’s just an excuse! Since he left the country, he never wanted to come back. Long before the Americans forbade anything. He suffered a traumatic experience that he can’t seem to get over. So he hides behind rules and regulations. If he really wanted to come, he’d come.”

“I’m prepared to believe you. But I can’t force him. If he really was so traumatized by the kidnapping, why force him to relive the nightmare?”

She shrugged.

“And Naïm?”

“With him, it’s the opposite.”

“Meaning?”

“He immediately replied to say that he’d come. But ever since then, I’ve been thinking, and now I’m hesitant.”

“Because he’s Jewish?”

“You don’t think that would put him at risk?”

“What risk? This place is a jungle! People from all over come to this country and it’s been fifteen years since anyone was kidnapped! Have you felt you’re in danger since you got here?”

“Me? Absolutely not.”

“You’re not in danger, nobody’s in danger. Think about it, it’s the middle of the night, we’re driving along a deserted, badly lit mountain road. Are you worried someone is going to cut our throats or rob us?”

He had to admit that, no, he felt reasonably safe, more so than in most countries.

They drove for some minutes in silence. Then Sémiramis, in a calmer mood, told her passenger that there had been an incident during the funeral:

“I thought someone would mention it over dinner, but Tania didn’t say anything, and everyone else decided to keep quiet for her sake. As I’m sure you know, there’s a family at the entrance to the village that Mourad didn’t get on with.”

Adam could not help but smile.

“That’s the understatement of the year, Sémi! I know the story. Mourad hated the family and they hated him. They accused him of having their son executed.”

“The funeral cortege was supposed to pass in front of their house on its way to the cemetery. As it approached, women streamed out of the house, women of all ages, I counted at least eleven. I assume the mother of the man who was killed, and his widow, his sisters, his sisters-in-law, his nieces … They were all dressed in black, but every one of them, without exception, was wearing a scarf that was bright red, blood red. As though they had spent the whole winter knitting just for this occasion.

“The funeral procession marched past. Everyone was really uncomfortable. Tania squeezed my arm so hard I’ve probably got bruises. There was what is appropriately called a deathly silence. These women, lined up against the wall, their silent faces expressionless, though one or two had a faint mocking smile. Their heads and their faces were covered such that all we could see were those red scarves, which the black clothes simply accentuated.

“No one in the cortege said anything. Not a word. We scarcely breathed. Unconsciously, we quickened our step. But crossing those few metres seemed to take an age.

“After the funeral, the procession took the same route back. The women weren’t there. But everyone turned to look at the place where they had stood, and again, we felt uncomfortable, this time because they had disappeared.

“Curiously, after the ceremony, no one mentioned the incident. Or, at least, not in my presence. I suppose there will have been people whispering about it, but in front of me, being a stranger in the village, no one said anything. As for Tania, she behaved as though nothing had happened. But I’m sure she’ll see those women in her dreams, and not just tonight.

“I had to tell you, but please don’t mention it to Tania. And if she decides to talk about it, pretend you didn’t know.”

Adam nodded, then asked the driver how she had interpreted the women’s gesture.

“The way they went about it was sinister, but the message was clear: the man who had had their ‘martyr’ shot was now dead too; by wearing black, they were prepared to join Tania in her mourning, but they had not forgotten their own grief.”

Deep down, Sémiramis had the feeling that the actions of the protesting women had been a warning to the widow, that it was the prologue to a new battle between the two families for possession of the house. But she had no desire to dwell on the incident.

“A little music?” she said suddenly, with a rather forced gaiety.

The question was rhetorical since, as she said the words, she was pressing a button that launched an old Iraqi lament:

She stepped out of her father’s house

And walked towards a neighbour’s door

She passed without a sign or wave,

Truly my love does treat me ill …

Sémiramis began to sing along with Nazem al-Ghazali, whose voice had so often been the soundtrack to their gatherings of long ago.

After a few minutes, she turned down the volume and asked her passenger:

“Have you put together a list of all the people who should be invited to the reunion?”

“I’ve got a list of about a dozen names, but there are some I’m still undecided about. For example, this afternoon, I thought about Nidal …”

“Nidal …?” Sémiramis said, as though she did not know who he meant.

“Bilal’s brother …” Adam said, without thinking.

“The brother of Bilal,” she echoed, her voice choking on the last syllable.

The moment the name passed my lips, Adam would later write in his notebook, I realized that I shouldn’t have said it. My friend’s face clouded over. She didn’t say another word, she just hummed along absently to the Iraqi song. To her, Bilal is a wound that has not been healed by the years, the decades, and I have no excuse, because I knew. If there was one name I should not have mentioned, it was his. But I was thinking about it constantly, and sooner or later I was bound to let it slip.

Back when we were at university, the day after the night I walked Sémi home, when we almost kissed, the young man who appeared in our group, the one who dared to hold her hand, was Bilal.

For me, the incident left a wound that I’ve realized since being back in the country, was lasting. But it is nothing, nothing at all compared to Sémi’s trauma and the brutal death of her first lover.

When our group of friends met up two or three days after the farcical walk home, and I saw this boy and this girl arrive together, arm in arm, obviously I was upset. But I felt I had no right to say anything, nor to resent them. After all, Bilal hadn’t “stolen my girlfriend”; I hadn’t managed to seduce her.

In my adolescent mind, I’d constructed a whole scenario around the beautiful Sémiramis. I saw myself walking with her hand in hand on the beach, barefoot. I pictured a thousand situations in which I rescued her, consoled her, amazed her. But all this was nothing more than my imagination, and, on the strength of a smile, I had convinced myself that her dreams might be like mine. It wasn’t Sémi’s fault, nor was it Bilal’s. If anything was responsible for my failure, it was the upbringing that had turned me into a boy who was so polite, so worried about offending, about not being liked, so mired in his books and his daydreams—that timid creature.

Over time, and with practice and instruction, I would eventually overcome my deepest inhibitions, although, even today, there is still a trace of shyness. But, back then, I couldn’t help but be envious of the two couples that existed within our group of friends—who were, incidentally, as dissimilar as possible. On one hand, Tania and Mourad, a sailboat on an oil slick; on the other, Sémi and Bilal, a skiff on a raging sea.

The former were present at every event, without exception; in fact, our little group clustered around them. The latter sometimes came, sometimes stayed away; one day they would leave each other in tears; the next day we would see them wrapped around each other again. You didn’t need a crystal ball to know which crew would weather the storm, and which would founder on the rocks.

I always wondered whether Bilal’s decision to join an armed faction was motivated by a shift in his politics, or by his tempestuous relationship with Sémi. And I never knew whether, when he died, they were still in a relationship or whether they were estranged or had broken up. Back then, it would have been insensitive to speculate, for fear of seeming to blame the young girl for the tragedy that had occurred. And, despite the years that have elapsed since, it’s clear that the subject still can’t be broached without great precaution.

I had proof of that today. The moment I saw her reaction, I bit my tongue, I said nothing more about this or any other subject. I felt it was impossible for me to apologize, continue the conversation, or change the subject. All I could do was wait. And, in silence, call to mind certain memories that explained my friend’s attitude.

I remembered, for example, that when Bilal died, Sémi wore mourning. For several months she wore only black, as though she were his lawful widow. Then she sunk into a profound depression.

They had been driving in silence for several long minutes, each consumed by memories of Bilal, and by regrets, when Sémiramis suddenly asked:

“Had you seen him recently?”

Adam started. He stared at her intently, as though she had gone completely insane. She quickly clarified, without a smile but with a sigh of impatience:

“I was talking about the brother.”

“Nidal? No, I haven’t seen him. Not for years. What about you?”

“I saw him once or twice afterwards. He’s changed a lot. You wouldn’t recognize him. These days he wears the beard.”

“If that’s the only diff—”

“I didn’t say a beard, I said the beard.”

“I know, Sémi. These days tens of millions of men wear the beard, as you call it. It can hardly be considered a novelty. Unfortunately, the spirit of the times is with Nidal, we’re the ones who have become anachronisms.”

“The beard,” she repeated, as though she had not heard him, “and all the speechifying that goes with it … If you invite him to the reunion, some of our friends might feel uncomfortable.”

“That doesn’t frighten me. Can he hold a conversation without pulling a gun?”

“Yes, as far as that goes. He’s pretty polite. But the content …”

“Reactionary?”

“More reactionary than a Taliban, and more radical than the Khmer Rouge. All in one package.”

“That bad?”

“No, I’m exaggerating a bit, but not much. He is pathologically conservative—he refuses to shake hands with a woman, for example. And when he talks about America, he sounds like a Maoist from the sixties …”

“I get the picture. But even that is the spirit of the times. I still think it wouldn’t do us any harm to hear him out.”

“Even if it means some of our friends might feel threatened?”

Adam thought for only a split second.

“Yes. Even if some of us feel threatened. We’re all adults, we’ve lost our youthful illusions, why would we need to hold the reunion in an antiseptic safe space? If Bilal’s brother has something coherent to say, and if he’s prepared to listen to others, I’m happy to listen to him, and to answer him.”

“You do what you like, you’re the master of ceremonies. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. If the reunion is ruined, you’ll only have yourself to blame …”

“Agreed. I’ll take responsibility.”

They had just turned into the private road that led to the hotel. Adam assumed that Sémiramis was going to park in front of her little house, but instead she pulled up outside the main door.

Was she going to put him to the test again, to force him to clearly articulate his desire to spend a third night with her?

No. She was elsewhere, still immersed in the memories that her passenger had rashly stirred up. Adam was tempted to apologize, but decided against it, judging that it would be more tactful not to make it too explicit.

He opened the car door; then, having checked that there was no one around, he leaned over and planted a furtive kiss on her cheek. She did not react, neither rebuffing him nor leaning towards him. He did not insist. He got out of the car and let her drive off.