The Secrets of Folder 42 E-Book

Abdelmajid Sebbata

• Herausgeber: Banipal Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 478

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

In this thriller-cum-jigsaw puzzle, two storylines play out across continents and true historical events as American novelist Christine McMillan and student Rachid Bennacer aim to solve The Secrets of Folder 42, while chess champion Zouhair Belkacem, shunted off to medical school in Moscow, returns to Morocco in time for a spectacular crunch day.

Leseprobe

THE SECRETS

OF FOLDER 42

A NOVEL BY

ABDELMAJID

SEBBATA

Shortlisted for the 2021 International Prize for Arabic Fiction

The Secrets of Folder 42

First published in English translationby Banipal Books, London, May 2024

Arabic copyright © Abdelmajid Sebbata

English translation copyright © Raphael Cohen, 2024Al-Malaf 42 was first published in Arabic in 2020Original title: 42

Published by Al-Markaz al-Thaqafi al-Arabi, Casablanca, Morocco

The moral right of Abdelmajid Sebbata to be identified as the author of this work and of Raphael Cohen as the translator of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher

A CIP record for this book is available in the British Library

ISBN 978-1-913043-41-4

E-book: ISBN: 978-1-913043-42-1

Front cover artwork: Samuel Shimon

Published with support from Abu Dhabi Arabic Language Center,through the Spotlight on Rights,Abu Dhabi International Book Fair 2022

Banipal Books

1 Gough Square, LONDON EC4A 3DE, UKwww.banipal.co.uk/banipal_books

Banipal Books is an imprint of Banipal PublishingTypeset in Cardo

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A.

To Ruqaya Belmamoun, a fighter,

and Abed Sebbata, a wise man:

As usual…

Life just imitates novels…

Rabee Jaber – The Last House (novel) – 1996

A Moroccan is unluckier than Sisyphus. He expends his life pushing the boulder of his oppression to the summit, then ends up crushed beneath it…

Khalid Rafiqi – A Moroccan Jigsaw Puzzle (novel) – 1989

(0) If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller

A writer never has a vacation. For a writer, life consists either of writing or of thinking about writing.

Eugene Ionesco

Wednesday, 6 November 2019

The railway station; Lamkinssia housing compound – Salé:

To me there’s no difference between a writer and a chess player. Both are engaged in an intense mental struggle against their opponent on a deceptively small board that takes in the whole world.

Because, in both chess and writing, assessments of winning or losing are relative and not deterministic, I have had to raise the white flag rather than keep fighting a battle in which every circumstance has combined to defeat me. Even if I defended myself temporarily with “a tactical retreat” – which is a ridiculous expression and the refuge of every loser.

But I’m not a politician who lies to his audience to conceal the truth. I’m a writer who lies to his readers to reveal the truth.

I have no choice but to sign my confession, even if it is a statement of outright surrender.

I am unable to finish the novel I started writing on Monday, 1 April 2019, and that means – if I drop the guise of a writer and adopt that of the civil engineer, which I gave up years ago because it didn’t suit me – the collapse of a structure whose foundations I did my utmost to strengthen, and whose schedule of works I always adhered to.

The structure collapsed leaving only one victim under the rubble: me!

Poor planning? Lack of funding? Or was the ground unfit for building in the first place?

All I can say is: I fell prey to an odious arrogance that made me believe I was master of my words and to a preposterous confidence in my ability to keep hold of the plot lines and follow the development of characters whose movement I controlled. But shockingly, they ganged up in secret to break their chains and start a revolution under a banner declaring: we have the right to decide our own destiny.

A unilateral ceasefire didn’t hold and the peace talks to which I invited the other parties, who rejected all forms of peaceful dialogue, failed. A direct and decisive confrontation was inevitable.

Strength in numbers beats courage, and a helpless pen cannot withstand the siege of paper beings who have decided to continue their revolution to the end, while blaming the pen for manipulating their past, present and future.

Their intransigence drove me to threaten to issue a final, unappealable ruling condemning them to death. On this basis I would, with a single click, move the folder containing the draft of the unfinished novel, with its worlds, characters and events, to the Trash.

The response was loud and clear: If one day the people wish to live, then fate must respond1. And respond it did, but in its own special way…

*

An almost empty railway station. A mobile phone displaying 21: 24. A heavy rainstorm making it impossible to get home on foot, even though it’s not far to the Lamkinssia housing compound.

I am so tired I have no need for a mirror to be shocked by my pallor, the black bags under my eyes and my protruding cheek bones. I’ve barely slept over the weeks I’ve spent filling my small notebook with plot outlines, arrows, remarks and incomprehensible sentences and words. Anyone who took a peek at it would think it was a child’s scribbles. But despite all that I haven’t been able to find the missing piece of the puzzle and add a single line to the unfinished draft on my laptop.

The publisher (whom I met in Casablanca) did not buy my excuses. He was keen on the idea when I first told him at the end of 2018, and approved of my choice of 2002 as the starting point for the action. He tried to go over some of the details with me, perhaps in the hope of helping, but in the end he apologised and gave me the freedom to do what I want.

Afraid that my laptop and my blue notebook would get wet, I hugged the leather bag close. I quickly exited the station and hailed a taxi – the only one waiting to leave. “Lamkinssia housing compound, please.” Like all taxi drivers, who usually refused a fare from the station to the compound because it was so close, the guy’s face showed displeasure. But the sorry state I was in from the rain – I had started to feel cold drips down my neck and chest – made him say, “Okay, let’s go.”

A middle-aged woman was in the front seat so I got into the back and quickly closed the door.

“I’ll just drop the lady at the Diyar Estate, then we’ll head to Lamkinssia.” Busy wiping the rain off my glasses, I didn’t reply. After a brief silence he continued, “I think being a taxi driver is the hardest job in the world. My wife’s just gone into labour with our third child, but instead of going with her to the hospital to help, I have to go out in this rain to make money. Still, my mother’s with her. It’ll be a good opportunity for them to make up, or call a truce, after they fell out because of…”

The woman engaged with what he was saying, while I just muttered, and the driver realised that I wasn’t interested in his personal life. The pair of them chatted away for a bit, but were interrupted by the screeching of the windscreen wipers and the intermittent distorted sound of a pop song coming from the radio.

The taxi stopped at the door of an apartment block. The woman paid her fare and said goodbye, wishing him, his wife and their third child well.

With a sharp turn of the steering wheel he caused a raggedy tramp to get soaked with dirty water and respond with a hail of filthy insults. The driver preferred to ignore them in favour of a new avenue of conversation with me: “Do you reckon Barcelona are ready for the post-Messi era? He couldn’t carry the team for ever. He’s thirty-two now, after all!”

God, I’m losing concentration. My head’s about to explode. The only thing I have in mind is a warm bed and you’re asking me about Messi!

His phone rang, sparing me the effort of passing that response on to my tongue.

“Hello, Mother. Any news? How are Naima and the baby doing? She has to have a caesarean! No way! I’m coming right now.”

Clearly shaken, he ended the call. My impatience softened into real sympathy and I said, “Don’t worry. She’ll be fine.”

“It’s impossible! Naima’s the strongest woman I ever met. She never complained of any pain, and her first two pregnancies were completely normal!”

We neared the entrance to the compound and I told him to stop and head to the hospital to help his ailing wife seeing as I could walk the rest of the way.

He thanked me warmly and asked me to pray for his wife and baby. Then he sped off, his tyres screeching against the asphalt.

I watched for a few seconds then gave an exhausted smile as I saw him pass the Umm Hani Estate and pull up next to someone else. Honestly, he had no hesitation in letting him get into the front seat before continuing like a rocket down the desolate streets of Salé.

Yes, he was distracted, worried about any harm coming to his wife and baby, but he was never going to lose out on any extra dirhams he might come across on his way to the hospital!

I turned on my heels and headed quickly towards the Khawarizmi neighbourhood. I went to put my hand in the lefthand pocket of my sodden trousers for my keys. But before my hand reached the pocket, my brain ordered it to stop with a sudden jolt, whose dreadful meaning I only understood too late. I had forgotten my laptop and my blue notebook on the backseat of the taxi!

***

Note

1A line of poetry from the Tunisian Aboul-Qacem Echebbi’s (1909-1934) poem “The Will to Live”. The lines are included at the end of the Tunisian national anthem and were also frequently cited during the events of 2011 throughout the Arab world.

World Culture magazine – May, 2002

Author of the Month: Christine McMillan (USA)

Note: To date none of the author’s novels have been translated into Arabic.

(1) Things Fall Apart

America is a highly complicated country, although the ideas in circulation there are extremely simple.

Matei Vişniec

Thursday, 26 September 2002

Strand Bookstore – Manhattan:

“Nobody has the right to question your literary talent, Christine, but you don’t understand anything about the ins and outs of publishing and the tricks of exclusive contracts. Please, don’t make any promises that you know full well you won’t be able to keep one day.”

Those were the words that Brandon whispered in my ear three years ago. And I admit today that they were wise, honest and decisive.

The very same qualities that apply to an exceptional man with whom I’ve been in a fuzzy relationship (or was in, if I wish to be painfully accurate) for almost eighteen years. Yet I dealt with his words (and with him too, perhaps) stupidly, hastily and casually. The way I usually deal with all the major turning points in my life.

I greeted a youthful reader wearing a raincoat that was too big for him with a graceful smile. Then I asked him for his full name so I could write a dedication above my signature on the first page of his copy. At the same time, the bookstore assistant gave a subtle sign with her fingers, telling me there were still about twenty people left in line. That meant another half hour would be enough to finish the book signing. I might need a further twenty minutes to make my meeting with David Hersch at six, Manhattan traffic permitting.

My fingers had cramp from holding the pen, and I made a supreme effort to ignore the pain. I focused my gaze on a distant spot in the vast bookstore: the section for bestsellers. My novel, Silent Angel, had dropped near the bottom of the list for two reasons that reinforced each other. First, the book had been out for a year and most journalists and critics had lost interest as they sought new titles hot off the press. Second, The Book of Illusions by Paul Auster had been published three weeks ago and Buick 8 by Stephen King had come out only two days ago. Either of those two stellar names on the cover of any book (even if all the inside pages were blank) was enough to generate record-breaking sales and unparalleled media and critical interest.

I might add a third thing. But my pride refuses to admit it.

The hands of my watch showed 5: 30 as I signed the last copy – presented by an elderly Mexican lady, who asked me to dedicate it to her daughter living in LA. As I fulfilled her wish, I glimpsed the bookstore manager hurrying over. His apparent enthusiasm masked a degree of hesitation.

“On my part and on behalf of all the staff at Strand Bookstore,” he began, “we would like to thank you for giving us the chance to hold a book signing for your beautiful novel, Silent Angel.” Now overly pumping my hand, he continued, “We also congratulate you on the great success of the event, as confirmed by the record number of those in attendance, all fans of your distinguished works.” His insincerity was unmistakeable.

I responded with a fake smile of my own and polite gratitude that prompted him to say, “We’ll be in touch with your publisher and your agent to provide fresh batches of your three novels once the current stock runs out. Our media person will also send a piece to the major newspapers for publication in their literary supplements.”

“You’ll have to excuse me,” I said in a firm diplomatic tone. “I’m very busy right now, but you can discuss all the details with my PA.” Then I picked up my coat, signalling I’d had enough and was desperate to leave. Nonetheless, he stopped me with a nervous movement: “Ms McMillan, I do believe that our rivalry with Powell’s Books in Portland over the title of best independent bookstore in the States is sufficiently well known that I can spare you the details. Today’s book signing is a point in our favour, but we aspire to more.”

I pretended not to understand, but his eyes gave away what he was hinting at. “We do hope that your next novel will contain a reference to our bookstore. There can be no doubt that the name of the Strand Bookstore appearing in a novel by a writer, all of whose previous titles have sold more than a million copies, would be a powerful boost to our publicity campaign.”

I imagined exploding in his face: “And who are you to dictate what I include in my novels? Do you all want to make everything – including creative literary works – subject to the grubby laws of supply and demand?”

I remembered that I was up to my neck in a sea of those vile laws, but I controlled my nerves and said coolly, “Okay, I’ll think about it.”

Unable to suppress my fury, of their own volition my eyes glanced over at the bestseller section. I had to beat a retreat, deliberately ignoring the nonsense emanating from the obsequious manager, who did not hear me add in a whisper, “That’s if I think about writing another novel in the first place.”

* * *

Commendation

The administration of Firsts Private Elementary School is delighted to award a certificate of commendation to student Zouhair Belkacem in recognition of his outstanding performance throughout the school year 1993/4, culminating in him coming top of the school.

We wish him every success in future.

The School Administration

Attendance Required

The administration of Success High School urgently requests the attendance of the parents of first-year student Zouhair Belkacem to inquire into the reasons behind his repeated absences during the second term of school year 1998/9.

Would the student’s parents please present themselves at the school upon receipt of this request.

The School Administration

Reprimand

The administration of Success High School, following the deliberation of its disciplinary board, has decided to issue a reprimand to third-year student Zouhair Belkacem and exclude him from the school for a period of 15 days, subject to renewal, as punishment for a fist-fight with maths teacher Abdurrahman el-Talibi, in transgression of all the rules of good conduct and respect towards teaching staff.

This decision affirms the school’s requirement that all students behave properly, and its use of all necessary pedagogical methods to enable them to continue learning in the best environment.

The School Administration

Baccalaureat Examination 2000/1:

Full Name

National No.

Final Mark

Grade

Zouhair Belkacem

2xxxxxxxxx

42%

Fail

(1ʹ) The Adolescent

I believe that each body tells the story of its desire, its terror, and its disappointment.

Milena Busquets

Tuesday, 14 May 2002

Sidi Abed Plage – Harhoura:

Sunshine, golden sands, cool waters eyeing you seductively and begging you to take a dip before the beach becomes crowded in a month’s time, perhaps less.

What in the devil’s name made my mother come up with the idea of sending me to our beach house at Sidi Abed on the pretext that I would benefit from the perfect atmosphere to revise for my bac exams at the beginning of June?

She knows as well as I do that my father will reject the idea outright. He’ll think that the atmosphere at home in our villa in the Hayy el Riad neighbourhood of Rabat is perfect for studying. The issue for him is not the place where I’m going to revise, but me, the messed-up, spoilt teenager who failed his exams last year.

But my mother also knows that the real reason he’ll reject it has nothing to do with me. The beautiful beach house has become the arena where he chases after his lost youth with nymphomaniac patients from his clinic, and with good-looking female students of his who are seeking success by means other than diligence and hard work. She pretends not to know about his conquests, and hasn’t come up with a way to curb his delayed adolescence, even if only for a couple of weeks, other than me.

Because my father realised that saying no to her means volunteering to walk into a minefield, whose detonations will send shrapnel flying on all sides, he gave in to her wishes, preferring surrender and the temporary concession of his clandestine playground.

That’s life for the three of us: a sordid drama where we lie to each other, and each of us knows that the others know we’re lying. We just pretend otherwise, obliged to play happy families for the benefit of others. It’s like a game of tennis. It might go on a long time, but the first one to tire will pay in the end.

I stood in the doorway of the main bedroom of the beach house for a long time. My father hadn’t bothered to tidy up after his last assignation, and my expert eye spotted an earring on the floor. I shoved it under the bed with my foot, worried that my mother would walk in. I had just heard her voice berating the new maid to hurry up with our bags.

“Leave the strident tone for court,” I said. “Ghalia’s only been with us for three weeks. She needs more time to get used to your shouting and your temper.”

I gave a mocking laugh, which she backed up with a no less derisory smile: “Just look at her. She might be sixteen, anyway that’s what the agent who supplied her said, but she looks as strong as an ox. No, I’m sure she’s taking her share of the clover from her father’s scrawny cow.”

You’ve really gone too far this time, missus.

The maid deliberately dropped my bag in a clear expression of anger, and my mother retreated from her hurtful sarcasm, perhaps conscious of her mistake. Then she pretended the girl wasn’t there and beckoned me with a finger to follow her into the hallway.

“It’s six in the evening, and I don’t think my meeting with the members of the association at Lalla Ghaitha’s villa in Tamara will last too long. I’m hoping to make a grab for the presidency of the Blooming Rose Association for the Defence of Women’s Rights. And I’m not going to miss the chance to spar with Nadia, a new little shit who dreams of beating me to it.”

What rights are you talking about, mother dear? I overheard you talking to your friend about how you aimed to cement your mutually beneficial relationships with the wives of influential men, women who fill their spare time with stupid crap of no benefit to anyone.

I kept the thought to myself. Besides what do her Association, her friends, and her bullshit have to do with me?

“I’ll leave Ghalia here to finish cleaning the rooms and the bathroom until I get back at eight to take her back home with me.”

We were at the front door and I was shocked that she stroked my cheek, a gesture of affection that I hadn’t seen for a very long time. Then in a strange tone, almost pleading, she said, “Zouhair, my love, you’re facing a tough challenge. I barely managed to convince my friends that you failed your bac last year because of a sudden illness. Don’t disappoint me again. It’s your last chance. I beg you, forget about your quarrels with your classmates and late nights out with your friends. Concentrate on your studies and your exams, and I promise you that we’ll do all we can. We’ll use our networks so you can finish your studies at a French university. My relationship with your father isn’t at its best, but I’m sure that your success will set the waters back on course.”

She concluded her plea with a hot kiss to my cheek, so I made a show of seeing her off after she got into the car. Then I slammed the door behind me, causing the small house to rattle.

Go to hell the pair of you! You’re the ones really responsible for fouling the waters. There’s no point setting them back on course as long as they’re not fit for human consumption!

I went back to the bedroom. Ghalia was dusting the windows with enviable application after having made huge efforts to clean the carpets of the villa in the morning. She had rolled her worn trousers up to her knees, revealing two strong calves whose veins stood out against the whiteness of her skin. The sleeves of her pink dress were also rolled up above two plump forearms. Her throat was adorned with a necklace of perspiration, droplets of which slipped unhurriedly down, preferring to nestle between her breasts.

Lost in her own world, she sang in a sad voice with a strange huskiness that only made it more beautiful and sexy:2

“Okay, it’s okay, it’s okay

Chaouia has enflamed me and made it worse

So hard to leave my family and friends.”

In an effort to stretch the cloth to the very top of the window overlooking the beach, she stood on the tiptoes of her bare feet. Her patterned scarf slipped down revealing surprisingly fine hair. Ignoring the strands falling over her forehead, she carried on singing, accentuating the words with pleasure:

“Harbousha’s no dancer and no whore

Harbousha’s a symbol of honour and dignity

She heals wounds at hard times.”

I kept quiet, wary of her noticing my presence and at the same time resisting a great urge to get closer and closer to her.

“The oppressor will never give in

The tribe will unite under one banner

I swear by Fridays and Tuesdays I’ll take my revenge, Uwaisa.”

The last part annoyed me even though I did not understand what it meant, and I gave the door of the room a violent kick. “What are you doing here?” I shouted, making her jump and turn towards me. She gasped and her eyes widened in an indecipherable way.

A code that was effortlessly able to combine fright and flirtation.

“You’ve got the whole house to clean before my mother gets back,” I whispered. My voice exposed my confusion, but she obeyed and left the room without saying a word.

Couldn’t you find anyone but this time bomb to plant in our house, you stupid agent?

***

Note

2A famous song from the Moroccan tradition. Harbousha was part of the rebellion of the Oulad Zaid against Caϊd Aϊssa, the provincial governor, in the nineteenth century. Harbousha is said to have sung it to him rejecting his advances, which led to her death.

Articles from the original contract between American author Christine McMillan and publisher Charles & Clover – signed by both parties at the publisher’s offices at 1230 6th Avenue, Manhattan, New York:

Article 8: The first party, represented by Charles & Clover, is committed to paying $250, 000 in advance to the second party, represented by Ms Christine McMillan, who will thereupon receive her annual earnings from the sales of her works on a specific date and according to a specific percentage of profits to be agreed upon in Article 9.

Article 10: The second party, represented by Ms Christine McMillan, is committed to delivering a manuscript of one novel per year, and participating in the publicity tours organized by the first party, represented by Charles & Clover, inside and outside the United States for four years starting from the date of signing this contract.

Article 11: Any breach of this contract may expose the second party, represented by Ms Christine McMillan, to legal liability and payment of the penalty clause stipulated in Article 12.

***

(2) The Grapes of Wrath

There is nothing more useless than trying to prove something to idiots.

Milan Kundera

Thursday, 26 September 2002

Offices of Charles & Clover – Manhattan:

Who would have imagined that my star’s rise in the firmament of literary creativity would be tied to a tragedy that shook every American to the core?

I put the question to myself as I drove through the intersection of 12th and Broadway (the location of the Strand Bookstore) heading towards Union Square.

I had been a plain high school literature teacher, doing her job in routine fashion at Columbine High School near Littleton in Colorado, and was now nearly forty years old. A woman who hitched up with Mike at a young age. He made her believe that he could make her the happiest woman on earth, and she believed that she was madly in love with him. Cindy and then Ronald were the rapid fruits of a hasty marriage. The result: a dull life with a husband who believed that happiness was sitting in front of the TV, belly hanging out, watching baseball games with a trashcan full of empty beer cans beside him. The two fruits lost their sweetness when they became teenagers, with all the difficulties and problems that this entailed. Then came the massacre of Tuesday, 20 April 1999, to turn over (or rip up) that boring page in my life forever.

I didn’t have time to stop and stroll down Madison Avenue. The luminous digits of the car’s clock showed 5: 53. So I continued down 5th Avenue before taking a right towards 50th Street, leaving the Empire State Building and New York Public Library in my wake. I thanked my lucky stars that I managed to reach 6th Avenue on time and I rode the elevator in the offices of Charles & Clover up to the nineteenth floor. I was greeted by a secretary who ushered me into the office of David Hersch, director of publishing, at exactly six o’clock.

“Hello there, Christine McMillan, the creative as punctual as a Swiss chronometer.” He had his back to me, but from the high pitch of his voice I could pick out sarcastic mockery. He turned on his heels and came over to me with firm, deliberate steps, then continued in a markedly serious tone, “The woman delighted with fame, fortune and literary glory who has forgotten a small article in her contract with the venerable Charles & Clover publishing house that required her to submit the manuscript of her new novel by the end of last month so we can prepare it for publication and enter it for literary prizes.”

His hair was so glossy that I was half convinced he went to a women’s hairdresser to have it styled. The prominent brow lacked wrinkles even though he was in his mid-fifties; his bulging eyes, I suspected, he had plucked from the sockets of a poor chameleon in the Nevada desert; his nose, it would be no exaggeration to say, was only an inch or two shorter than Pinocchio’s; and his wide mouth revealed dazzlingly white teeth, even though his marriage to cigarettes was a Catholic one, divorce not an option. Sure, I’m also American, but I think of David Hersch with his irritating appearance as a classic example of the American hated by millions around the world, with or without reason.

I was primed for his incendiary opening and I sat calmly down on the large couch and pretended to contemplate a dreadful portrait occupying most of the wall opposite. I wondered how much the jerk had paid the artist to manipulate how the light fell and rework his features so he looked handsome and self-confident.

I squirrelled the stupid question into the furthest reaches of my mind, then gave him a rehearsed answer: “Charles & Clover is a major publisher. In the past it has handled titans on the scale of Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Wolff, Irving, Lessing and others, and I am honoured to work with it. You do know, though, that the primary source of my work’s success is the quality of what I write and the ability of my words to touch the hearts and minds of readers…”

“The quality of what you write?” he interrupted, adding a drawn-out laugh that dealt a fatal blow to my composure. “In the US there are hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of talented people looking for a quarter of the chance you’ve had. We picked you out of the gutter from the small-time publisher who released the first few editions of your early work Prisoner of Class 12. Then we saved you from a dumb literary agent whose clock stopped ticking in the’80s and who rejected the limelight and preferred the role of anonymous talent spotter. Not so?”

His caustic words annoyed me, and I stood up and walked across the office to confront him directly: “I really was crazy when I dropped an agent who discovered my talent and encouraged me to take the risk of writing and publishing. As for what you call the life of fame and fortune, I’ve lost the taste for it. Your goddamn exclusive contract compels me to release a novel every year and take part in publicity tours that cover most of the US plus countries in Europe and Asia. I’ve been turned into a machine shorn of human feelings. I’ve had to give up my old life in Denver and stay here in New York to write novels. A kind of writing no different from flipping burgers, in my opinion. No, David, I won’t play your suicidal game anymore…”

The director of publishing was stunned by my onslaught, but he composed himself with remarkable alacrity and waved a copy of the contract in my face, proof that he had prepared himself in advance to enter into a game of jeopardy in which we both knew who would win and who would lose.

“Listen carefully. Long experience has taught me that the biggest problem for novelists is that they handle life as if it were a novel they can control and whose events they can alter at will. You are bound by a contract that you signed with us when of sound mind. Just go over Articles 10 and 11.”

I snatched the paper out of his hand with a violence that showed how worked up I was, and I forced myself to re-read and scrutinize what I well knew.

Yes, I signed the contract with my eyes shut. Stupidly, I agreed to its terms, heedless to advice and warnings, simply because at the time the contents of Article 8 made my mouth water.

“Calling your current agent, or even your attorney, won’t help you in the slightest. The contract is watertight. I’ve persuaded the board to postpone publication of your scheduled novel until January. Come on, get your usual calm and enthusiasm back. Your lovely beach house in the Miami suburbs awaits. You have two months to submit a draft of your new book to the editorial department.”

I thought he had finished, but he continued with contempt: “I also advise you to see a psychoanalyst. Perhaps they can help you cope with the early signs of menopause!”

A bitter lump stuck in my throat as I strode towards the door, which I flung open to the astonishment of the secretary. I got into the elevator, hoping its doors would close quickly, as if all the demons in the world were on my tail.

I sat behind the steering wheel of my car and picked up my mobile phone with trembling fingers.

No, I wasn’t going to call my attorney or my current literary agent, or even Mike, but a number I hadn’t forgotten in the three years since I had last heard the voice at the end of the line. After just two rings a calm, steady voice said, “Hello,” and I burst into tears. “Brandon, save me! I need you!”

***

Practice question in physics – third year high school (baccalauréat) – curriculum of Moroccan Ministry of Education 2002:

The electrical circuit in the diagram below consists of:

C:         Condenser of capacitance 5μF

Lb:         Inductor of impedance 0. 8H with negligible resistance

K:         Circuit breaker

1–1       The circuit breaker is set in position 1, charging the capacitor. Calculate the charge Q0 of the capacitor.

1–2–1   Derive the differential equation describing the charge Q of the capacitor.

1–2–2   Find an expression for charge Q as a function of time.

***

(2ʹ) The Assault

It’s the same story always repeated: some guy who nobody listens to, nobody pays attention to, and he punishes the lot of them by forcing them to watch what he’s capable of.

R. J. Ellory

Tuesday, 14 May 2002

Sidi Abed Plage – Harhoura:

Sprawled on my bed, fingers toying with my pen, exercise book next to me, I can’t work out an easy physics question. No surprise really, when my desire to calculate the value of charge Q0clashes with my preoccupation to solve another more difficult problem: Why has my life gone so badly wrong?

To some I’m a prime example of a spoilt kid, whose life of affluence and luxury has stunted his mental capacity and snared him in boredom and laziness. But the truth is something quite different.

Zouhair Belkacem, son of distinguished doctor Younis Belkacem and steely lawyer Hanan el-Farisi was a good boy, polite and obedient, like Karim the model kid in our ridiculous school books. An outstanding student, who liked horse riding, excelled at chess, and basked in the admiration and esteem of his friends and most of his family.

But he was afflicted with two selfish parents blinded by greed, dreams of wealth and keeping up with so-and-so. They forgot the early years of their marriage as two happy young people living in a small house with simple furniture, and raced to climb the ladder leading to success. Even if getting to the top meant trampling over the backs of those they loved most.

Their only child was, in their view, too young to understand what was really going on around him. A father who took advantage of his profession for sexual ends, and a mother who made the law a servant of her own mysterious interests. The son, caught between them, suffered as he turned from a docile child into an unruly teenager bent on causing problems as a futile protest against the fact that he was totally lost.

I picked up the physics textbook in disgust and flung it away in hatred, as though it were to blame for my problems. Then I hurried over to my backpack in a desperate search for the beautiful cure…

A swig from a bottle of vodka I stole from my father’s secret fridge, although it wasn’t really suitable for a month of recordbreaking high temperatures.

You Russians are fantastic. You invented a legendary drink that makes you fly to the seventh heaven.

No harm in a swig or two before my mother arrives to take Ghalia home, then the real evening begins and fuck the physics questions and the whole bac. It’ll be an evening for me, in the company of sea and stars… and vodka!

The drink was burning my throat but urged me on. I stuck the end of the bottle in my mouth in defiance of the high alcohol content and the risk of losing control of myself before my mother came back. My body heated up after a few minutes and without my mind understanding the meaning, I blurted out, “Ghalia! The poorest, most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, come over here!”

In a few seconds she appeared before me. I noticed the expression on her pretty face had changed from exhaustion to apprehension, whose main cause was the bottle, and I hid it behind my back. “What’s the name of the godforsaken village that sprouts poor girls as incredibly good-looking as you?”

She raised her right eyebrow, either expressing her astonishment or her inherent flirtatiousness, no difference.

“When will Lalla Hanan be back? She’s very late.”

Her voice held an unmistakable note of fear, and I tried to reassure her with a more even response: “That’s what my mother is like. For sure the temptation of chatting to her friends will make her forget the time she has to be back. No problem. What do you say we wait for her together?” With a sweep of my hand I invited her to sit next to me, but she didn’t budge. “I can’t do the physics question, but I’m sure you can help me, even though you’re just an ignorant village girl who knows nothing about science. Itʹs about a voltage generator, a capacitor, and an inductor…”

“Excuse me, sir. I have to go.”

I ignored her interruption and continued, “Let’s imagine that the voltage generator is me and the capacitor is the bottle that scared you…” I stood up fast to jump her. “… and the inductor with negligible resistance is you…”

The shock paralysed her, allowing me to put my arm around her waist and bring my lips up to her neck. But with astonishing agility she slipped away and squared up to me. “Who do you think you are, asshole? Keep away from me or I’ll knock your teeth out!” she roared, then backed away and left the room at a run.

I gave a smile of pleasure, excited by her husky voice to try again. “Taming the bitch isn’t going to be easy. Which only goes to show that woman epitomizes the mystery of life – it only gives you what you want if you deserve it.”

Strange words, and I felt so hot it was making it hard to breathe. I pulled off my sweat-soaked shirt and went out into the hall after her.

“Don’t play hard to get. I’m only thinking of what’s good for you. What will you get out of hard labour for my mother if it isn’t interspersed with some enjoyable times with me? Are you”…

I didn’t finish what I was saying but turned it into a scornful laugh when my eyes met Ghalia’s, wide in fury. With two trembling hands she gripped the handle of a kitchen knife, defending herself behind the dining table in the living room.

“I’m going to tell Lalla Hanan everything.”

The cold liquor running in my veins gave me the courage to ignore her threat and move closer to her. I managed to grab her left wrist, confident that she was too much of a coward to attack me with the knife.

A bad idea, and I paid the price almost instantly…

The cut wasn’t deep or serious, but my arm was swimming in bright red blood, and I lost it. “You insignificant insect, how…” Rage blinded me to everything but the heavy ceramic vase in front of me. I threw it at her and she just managed to avoid it, but the back of her head hit the window handle and she fell to the floor unconscious, her blood sullying her patterned headscarf.

My fit of rage and crazed lust gave me extra strength that caused me to forget the pain. I undid her belt and ripped open her tatty pink dress, the last obstacle to my assault on the gates of her impregnable fortress.

Hadn’t I told her that to solve the physics question there needed to be an inductor of negligible resistance?

***

The Final Report – Episode on the Columbine Massacre – National Geographic Channel – 2007

Excerpt from minutes 18–20:

(Narrator in the background): April 20th, 1999…

The rampage of Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold at Columbine High School is over.

Students are in shock.

(Student crying in distress): I was under a table and people were being shot all around me.

(Student, visibly in shock): They got automatic weapons, sawn-off shotguns and pipe bombs.

The dead include twelve students (four females and eight males), one teacher, and the two gunmen.

Throughout the school, police find pipe bombs and shell casings, evidence left behind in the worst school shooting in American history The level of violence leaves police and school officials wondering:

Did the teachers at Columbine notice any warning signs?

That night, at Eric and Dylan’s homes, police discover a wealth of evidence, including ammunition, metal pipes, fuses, violent essays and journals. They also seize a series of home videos made by Eric and Dylan in the months before the massacre.

In the days following the shooting, impromptu memorials appear around the school.

For the grief-stricken community, the most troubling question remains: Why did Eric and Dylan go on their murderous rampage?

***

(3) American Pastoral

Woman does not understand love. When she loves, she loves the wrong man.

Abdurrahman Munif

Thursday, 26 September 2002

Central Park – Manhattan:

Brandon did not disappoint me. He agreed to meet without the slightest hesitation, seeming to forget the problems that had wrecked our friendship for three years. I was relieved to see they hadn’t changed him one bit – he maintained his resistance to having dinner with me at one of Manhattan’s restaurants, always poking fun at their swankiness. He preferred to buy two bottles of sparkling water and a couple of hotdogs, which we would eat, as he put it, al fresco.

“Let’s meet in thirty minutes in Central Park by the Lake.” Thirty minutes was enough to go over some of our history.

I first met him in Denver in 1984 as part of a programme at college to help young soldiers coming back from conflict zones complete their education and reintegrate into civilian life. He was a handsome guy just turned twenty, tall, broad-shouldered and with good skin. His green eyes had an enduring sadness and he never seemed to smile, which gave him a singular attraction.

War had screwed up his present by killing his comrades and finished off his future by severing his right leg. Brandon had been injured in the 1983 bombing of a US military barracks in the Lebanese capital Beirut, a city I couldn’t locate on the map, and I doubt he knew much about either when he was sent there at nineteen years of age. The wounded soldier came back from the hell of Lebanon traumatized and damaged. The medics had had to amputate his leg and replace it with a prosthetic, which he would have to live with for the rest of his life. I learnt this from reading the report attached to his file. Relying on him to talk about his past was a non-starter.

He seemed a nice guy, despite his melancholy. I got why he was introverted and loved solitude. I felt for him and did all I could to make things easier for him, motivated by a human impulse that went beyond what the university administration had asked of me. I showed him round the campus and gave him some advice about first-year classes. With a few friends I also helped organize a mini welcoming party. His new classmates gave him a round of applause, as a hero who had defied every difficulty to defend the flag with courage and valour. He reacted to this sentimentality with a rare ghost of a smile, which I later realised was one of cynical indifference.

My mission ended with the start of the new semester and I went back to my friends in junior year, also modern literature majors. That did not prevent me from meeting up with him from time to time, depending on my schedule and maybe on his inclination. Then, on my twenty-first birthday, he suddenly decided to open the first crack in his impregnable shell. He came to my party, bringing a small tasteful gift with him. It was a copy of Mrs Dalloway by Virginia Woolf, a recent edition in hardback, bearing a lovely dedication from him, which I did not need to be a graphologist to know he had written with an uncertain and trembling hand.

That really marked the beginning of our long friendship. Finally, I had come across someone who shared a passion that was of no interest to my circle of friends. Reading.

Brandon helped me discover new worlds. He taught me to dance with Zorba. He accompanied me on an exhausting tour of the streets of Dublin with Leopold Bloom, as Joyce had done in Ulysses. He wrapped me in an overcoat to bear the cold of Saint Petersburg in our pursuit of Raskolnikov, torn between Crime and Punishment. The allusions of Pessoa’s Book of Disquiet he tried to unravel with me. Then he guided me through the labyrinth of One Hundred Years of Solitude to a brief encounter with The Stranger before we went back home like two people On the Road with Jack Kerouac in search of The Great Gatsby, avoiding everything that might draw us towards the maelstrom of The Sound and the Fury with The Catcher in the Rye.

At the time, I asked him why he was mad about books. The simplicity of his answer amazed me: “Literature isn’t pure imagination like some people think. It’s real life. And the most beautiful thing is the tightrope walk between reality and fiction. I don’t reckon I would have been able to understand the absurdity of a life that has taken everything away from me unless I had held on to one end of that tightrope, which would lead me to unravel the riddle of life.”

That’s how our relationship developed. I did keep it within bounds; I wasn’t going to give it a Hollywood ending.

My mom talked about signs from the universe and history repeating itself. She always told me the story of how she fell in love with my dad and married him in the early ‘60s after they were fated to meet on the steps of the college where they were both studying. Dad also encouraged me to get close to Brandon, expressing admiration for someone who reminded him of his youth as a soldier who also spent a few years serving abroad. Based somewhere more stable, he was luckier than Brandon and came home fit and well.

I got their message, but acted dumb. They understood that we would never be more than friends as long as I had given my heart to someone else.

Did I make the right choice?

I don’t know…

It’s too late to ask the question!

To begin with, all the girls like a teen rebel who’s only good at dragging their dignity through the mud, and so keep the devoted good guy as a “friend”. Only a klutz of a girl, who insists on ignoring the feelings of the good guy, keeps going with the rebel till the end, believing that he will change over time and turn into a mature boyfriend and then a perfect husband.

Mike was the rebel.

Brandon was the good guy.

And I was the klutz…

Anyway, the river of life flowed along and I graduated with honours from college and got a job as a teacher at Columbine High School. I married according to my heart, then had kids, and like any normal American mom suffocated in routine and boredom.

Brandon, though, was luckier (or braver) than me. He refused to submit to what he called the chains of savage capitalism. After graduation, he was happy to spend a few years gaining experience as an editor and proofreader at a big publishers in New York, then he set off to fulfil his dream of working as an independent literary agent, reading drafts, guiding and advising authors, then acting for them in defence of their rights and interests with publishers and the media.

He believed that happiness lay in turning his passion for reading and literature into a way of making a living, and he was pretty successful at it. That allowed him to do another job, one he loved as much as his first passion: being a guardian angel who vanished for long periods only to appear at just the right time to save me from the gales that fate was battering against the ship of my life.

The 1990s wasn’t a merciful decade for me. In the early years, a sudden heart attack took my dad, and in the middle ones cancer stole my mother from me. Then at the end the Columbine massacre struck and the fragile cohesion of my family came unstuck.

Everyone was interested in what happened on that black day, and the innocent victims enjoyed sympathy and solidarity. Nobody understood the real motives why Eric and Dylan committed the horrific massacre.

And me?

Just another lucky lady who wasn’t shot dead or injured, lightly or seriously. She wasn’t the mother or relative of anyone killed or injured. Nobody cared about the imprint that the sight of dead bodies, the smell of blood, and the sound of gunfire left in her memory, or about her inability to rid herself of the deadly fear that gripped her the day she hid under a table with her students, waiting for two frenzied teenagers to reach the floor her classroom was on.

The effects of the massacre threw me into a deep depression and I had weeks of intensive therapy that sapped my strength and energy. I also suffered from the repulsive indifference of a lowdown dirty husband who didn’t take me seriously and couldn’t be bothered to stand by me in my ordeal. He simply vented his outright annoyance at my being in a vicious circle swinging between insomnia and nightmares, followed by an addiction to powerful sedatives.

I reached a point where I could no longer bear the selfishness of a man who not for one second in all the years of our marriage I felt cared about me. I asked for a divorce and went to live alone in my parents’ house, bereft at the fact that Cindy and Ronald chose to stay with their father.

Then Brandon turned up to save me from going crazy or killing myself.

He brought the solution with him, or the pen with which I wrote a new chapter in my life…

***

(3ʹ) The Fall

Good and evil are our standard for judging people, but is that enough?

Donato Carrisi

Tuesday, 14 May 2002

Sidi Abed Plage – Harhoura:

Once she had come round, a few seconds was enough for Ghalia to take in the magnitude of what I had done to her. Then, for several minutes, she trembled in shock without making a sound while trying desperately to cover up her breasts, shoulders, and thighs with the clothing I had torn off when I attacked her in a burst of drink-fuelled lust that I had never imagined myself capable of.

I willingly admit to a long list of juvenile problems: staying out late clubbing and missing school in the morning; fighting with my friends for no good reason, leading to censure in and out of school; and, naturally, failing my exams last year was premeditated. But raping a defenceless cleaning girl in a scene of surreal horror that mixed sweat with blood, and groans of pain with moans of pleasure? The only explanation was that I was approaching the point of no return. If I hadn’t passed it already, that is.

My fear equalled Ghalia’s agony and I could not stop myself from shaking as I envisaged my mother’s return and her furious reaction when she discovered what had happened in her absence.

I convinced myself that the girl would keep her mouth shut. She would never dare disgrace herself, unless driven by madness to risk the reputation that I knew was the most precious thing she possessed in the traditional community she belonged to. I approached her holding a white handkerchief soaked in alcohol in an attempt to clean the cut on her head and help her stand up.

A stupid move that lit the fuse of her fury and rapidly doused the spark of my absurd idea, that had only been a means to help me calm down.

Ghalia lashed out at me and intense shame paralysed me as I surrendered to her hysterical slaps and punches. I was stunned by her amazing ability to guess what I was thinking.

“I might be a poor village girl like you and your mother say, but you’re going to pay the price for what you’ve done. I won’t rest easy until I see you behind bars.” She said this in a cruel tone that did not match her sorry state and the tears running down her cheeks. Words that had no relation to the humble domestic servant to whose name my mother had prefixed “the dumb cow” for the few weeks she had worked for us.

Had we been wrong to think she was illiterate and ignorant, understood nothing, and had never gone to school? The question evaporated in a flash when she suddenly stopped hitting me and rushed towards the front door and let herself out. I followed shouting, “Ghalia! Ghalia! Come back here. Don’t do anything stupid. Please!”

The echo of my voice trailed off into the deserted emptiness while she ran like the wind, holding the hem of her torn dress up to her chest, oblivious to her hair flying loose. A blast of cold air stopped me chasing after her and reminded me I wasn’t wearing a shirt. I went back inside to find one, wasting time that was more valuable than I imagined.

I went beyond the area of empty beach houses and reached the dirt track leading to the main road. The only light came from the moon and I fell over twice and only regained my balance with great difficulty. I kept calling Ghalia’s name and surrendered to a despair that put paid to all my hopes of correcting my fatal mistake.

Would she look for the nearest police station or post to report me, or would the shock and her ignorance of the isolated beach area stop her thinking clearly and perhaps make her run off into the unknown?

My confusion soon ended when I was caught in the light of a torch while brushing the sand off my shirt. I retreated backwards and called in fear, “Who’s there? Who are you?”

Half-shrouded in darkness, all that was visible of his face was a bushy moustache and two crafty-looking eyes, made more so by the put-on firmness with which he said, “I believe I’m the one authorized to ask that question. I’m the guard of the beach residencies and I’m going straight to the police if it turns out you’re one of those chancers out for a quick fumble with their girlfriend on the beach. Things didn’t quite work out as you planned, no doubt, since I spotted the shadowy figure of a girl get swallowed up in the dark before I could catch her.”

Ghalia, no doubt.