The Deaf-Mute Boy

The Deaf-Mute Boy

Terrace Books, a division of the University of Wisconsin Press, takes its name from the Memorial Union Terrace, located at the University of Wisconsin–Madison. Since its inception in 1907, the Wisconsin Union has provided a venue for students, faculty, staff, and alumni to debate art, music, politics, and the issues of the day. It is a place where theater, music, drama, dance, outdoor activities, and major speakers are made available to the campus and the community. To learn more about the Union, visit www.union.wisc.edu.

The Deaf-Mute Boy Joseph Geraci

terrace books a trade imprint of the university of wisconsin press

Terrace Books A trade imprint of the University of Wisconsin Press 1930 Monroe Street Madison, Wisconsin 53711 www.wisc.edu/wisconsinpress/ 3 Henrietta Street London WC2E 8LU, England Copyright © 2006 Joseph Geraci All rights reserved 1

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Printed in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Geraci, Joseph. The deaf-mute boy / Joseph Geraci. p. cm. ISBN 0-299-21894-5 (pbk.: alk. paper) 1. Gay college teachers—Fiction. 2. Gay men—Fiction. 3. Tunisia—Fiction. 4. Political violence—Fiction. I. Title. PS3607.E725D43 2006 813´.6—dc22 2006008063

The true value of travel lies . . . in opening the heart to feeling. Laurence Sterne

The Deaf-Mute Boy

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aurice Burke would not have come to Sousse had he not been invited to deliver several lectures at a conference on Roman archaeology, “Discourses of Classical Colonialism.” His book, Spirit of Place, had recently been translated into French and been favorably reviewed in the Parisian intellectual press, still of considerable influence in Tunisia. Tourist spots did not attract him. He liked to think, a bit pompously, that he traveled with purpose. Surveying Roman ruins on remote Italian hilltops in order to understand the ancients’ motivations and inspirations fulfilled his sense of adventure and stretched his imagination far more than the packaged tour—that skimming of cities like stones over shallow ponds—ever could. He was often heard to rant about the destruction of his beloved Mediterranean by mass tourism, the spiritual as well as physical pollution of his pristine, ageless sea. Sousse did not disappoint his aversion nor deny him the opportunity for invective. He hated it at once with a vengeance, enough of a seasoned traveler to know that his instant dislike was not simply culture shock. There was, he told his Columbia students often 3

enough, a genius loci. And that of Sousse? As he wrote in one of his first diary entries: Sunday, January 7. Sousse. This is not the most propitious month to be here. The viral winter winds blowing down from the Khroumirie mountains or in from the desert seem permeated with the ague of avarice. The place is infected with greed, everyone feverish for money; having some for themselves, getting it from the tourists before they leave, rushing to the next to begin again and get more. . . . I wouldn’t wish Sousse on my worst enemy as a punishment for their worst betrayal. The hotel would never have been his choice either. The blond furnishings, white and gold walls and mirrors, mock crystal chandeliers, and garish red carpets were a tawdry imitation of what a Westerner thought the Orient should be; a tasteless hotelier creating a feeble illusion, as if that were all the Mysterious East had become. Perhaps it was too much to ask for authenticity from a high-rise hotel. He was here for a week: to deliver his address, conduct his seminars, and be gone. If he focused on that, he could get through it. His first morning there began auspiciously. Having stopped over in Paris for a few days, he was well over his transatlantic jet lag and back on his regular schedule of rising early. The vast dining room was nearly empty. A group of women were at the front of the buffet breakfast line, part of the German university delegation he had overheard in the lounge the evening before. He did recognize a familiar face. The Oxford historian D. J. Dobbs was making his way across the room with a laden tray. They had passed each other on the beach yesterday evening; nodded but not spoken. He had reviewed Dobbs’s work in the Journal of Near Eastern Studies on the influence of economics on the Roman’s choice of city and temple sites, a topic he had glossed over in his own work. They were representing opposing sides on the podium one afternoon and he was hoping they could discuss matters before then. 4

Dobbs was a small man in his sixties. He was dressed in a well tailored gray suit, light blue shirt, and house-colors tie; hardly clothes for the Maghreb, Maurice thought, gazing down approvingly at his own cotton sweater and summer weight trousers. Dobbs was already seating himself at a window table on the far side of the room, as far away from the women as possible, it appeared. He would have to traverse a deserted room, past the women, and scores of empty tables, simply to introduce himself and invite him to lunch. Should he wait? Dobbs was shaking out a London newspaper. He frowned as Maurice approached. “Professor Dobbs? Maurice Burke. I reviewed your work. For JNES” “Burke? Oh yes, Burke. Columbia University. We’re sharing the podium Thursday.” “Yes, we are. I was hoping we’d have a chance to talk before then and wanted to invite you to lunch.” “Lunch? Today you mean? Oh no, I couldn’t possibly. I have a lecture this afternoon and have to prepare.” “I just meant before Thursday.” “Well is it really necessary? I mean, as I recall you rather neatly tore my book to shreds. Rather deliberately, I thought.” Maurice feigned a laugh. “Oh I don’t know. That’s a bit harsh. I did say your work was innovative.” Dobbs wore horn-rimmed glasses. His eyes were an indistinguishable watery blue. A few thin strands of dyed black hair were carefully stretched over his baldness. “Perhaps I have you mistaken with someone else then. It was your review, wasn’t it, that described me as being ‘mechanistically Marxist,’ and you who said I ‘imposed anachronistic materialist models on the classical world’? Or am I mistaking you with some other . . . American?” “I’m afraid that was me. Of course, I had some criticisms. But I did say that your economic model of the Roman world was—I think this is accurate—‘the most thorough and insightful so far put forward.’” “Even as you disagreed with it.” 5

“Not necessarily. I just don’t give it primacy.” “Oh yes, you’re that Jungian. A rather odd position for an archaeologist I would have thought. Linking archetypes of the collective unconscious with geography. I’m afraid I’m not convinced by all those symbolic renderings of Roman realities. But no matter.” Maurice had not been invited to sit. His tray was weighing heavily and his eggs were getting cold. “I do apply some of Jung’s theories, but I wouldn’t call myself a Jungian. Anyway, I didn’t mean to interrupt your breakfast. I only wanted to introduce myself and ask you to lunch, or perhaps for a walk on the beach some morning before our seminar.” Dobbs picked up his fork, not quite addressing Maurice. “I like to walk quite early. Have a cup of coffee in my room. Out on the beach at the crack of dawn. It’s the best time, you know. None of the hawkers about and you get the dawn over the sea. A bit cold this morning, of course. Woolen sweater and all that.” “I’m also an early riser. I wouldn’t mind walking before breakfast.” He waited for Dobbs to respond, but when he did not he added. “Well then, we’ll leave it at that. Some morning.” Dobbs nodded. Maurice had his lecture notes with him and took his breakfast outside by the pool and gardens. His seminar was not until the following afternoon and he did not feel much like working. The gardens were well watered and green. The pink and white geraniums and scarlet bougainvillaea were in full bloom. He set his tray down on a low table. The water on the pool shimmered tranquilly. He looked at his watch. It was only 7:45, hours to go before the first seminar at ten. Edmund, his partner, liked to chide him about his early habits, a holdover from his years in the Jesuits, before he came to his senses, as Edmund would also say. If he were here they could have had a good laugh over the little tête-à-tête with Dobbs. Was the man really that thin-skinned? Probably not. More of a misanthrope, most likely. The English were odd, of course; seeing themselves as centers of a world against which they must defend themselves. 6

Thinking about Eddie made him miss him. And anxious. He had expected a fax to be waiting at the desk this morning but there was none. They exchanged faxes or phone calls every day when they were separated. He might have had a bad day yesterday. The thought made him feel guilty for being away, but he was ready to interrupt his stay and fly back if there was a relapse. His own fax had gone out dutifully before going to bed, details about his last morning in Paris with their friend Henri Meursault, his delayed flight, his abhorrence of the hotel, the cute waiters; loads and loads of love. Did the burly, mustached man who sent the fax for him read English? He was Eddie’s type, a little like himself, really, sturdy and solid but not obese, the bear-hug type. Maybe he would risk mentioning him in today’s fax. If the clerk could read English he might take it as an invitation and did he really want that? If Eddie were here now he would insulate him from the horrid atmosphere and onset of mild depression, by being acerbic, by being ruthless. Eddie was right: too many Jesuit scruples still got in his way. They could have been having breakfast together. Eddie would make allowances for his morning mood, by saying something arch to make it all seem funny, or by keeping silent, and as that boy dipped his metal rake into the pool Eddie would make a dirty joke. He would phone Eddie this evening. A cool breeze blew, smelling of some sweet flower. The sun slanted low shadows across his legs. There was a certain peacefulness here in North Africa, in this place that did not at all seem authentic, if any place along any of the entire Mediterranean coast was authentic now, from Gibraltar around and back to Gibraltar, a coast line that defined civilizations after all. How did you find authenticity? Did it ever reside in a place? He picked up his conference papers, but then put them down again. He did not have to go over his speech again, having delivered so many versions of it already. His thing with Dobbs was not until Thursday: the walk or not the walk with him. There was a certain freedom here he might enjoy. He hurried through the rest of his breakfast. He could walk on the beach himself before the day’s proceedings began. 7

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he Mediterranean coastline of North Africa, the Maghreb, or Western Parts, curves eastward from Gibraltar to the Tunisian town of Bizerte, and from here southward for a few hundred kilometers, with various curves and protuberances, peninsulas and a scattering of islands, before heading eastward again to Egypt. If one were to hover high enough above it to get the proper perspective on its geographic vagaries, Tunisia would be seen to have the anomaly of a north to south coastline, unlike the mostly west to east coast of the rest of the Maghreb, one small detail of many that set it apart. Maurice was walking northward, away from town, toward the last of the luxury hotels in the tourist zone. The low, blinding sun was just fully emerged from the placid sea, but Maurice had remembered his sunglasses. He removed his sweater and tied it around his waist. A few people were already out. Groups of hikers were doing communal exercises; five or six people in black wetsuits were preparing to enter the water; a man was shouting the prices for camel rides, a sorry looking beast he would have been afraid to sit on for fear of contracting 8

its mange. An obese man frantically ran up to him: “Faire l’amour! Faire l’amour!” Maurice was startled, laughed, but managed easily to shrug him off. Too manic to waste time with refusals, the man rushed off to intercept someone else, and someone else. The hawkers had already spread their blankets with neat rows of blue and white dishes, cups, and bowls, small clear plastic boxes containing dead scorpions, badly made leather goods, tee-shirts and more teeshirts stacked everywhere. He noticed that the wandering peddlers had a certain technique. They would walk a few feet inland of the strollers, but quicken their pace as they drew near, swooping on their prey aggressively, as falcons hunt. Was that their model? He needed to watch over his left shoulder, to be ready with a sharp “No.” To prove his point, he thought with some amusement, an old man approached. He held an open wicker basket under his arm filled with geodes. “Very cheap,” but he quoted an outrageously high price. When Maurice looked closely he realized that purple dye had been added. He had to keep his wits about him, which he did not want to do at that hour of morning. A jutting of land had marked his natural goal. He would go that far before deciding whether to turn back. The beach was widening too; the endless string of beach resorts pushed back another fifty yards, then a hundred. There was even open land, for the most part strewn with rubbish and overgrown with anemic desert plants and grass; sad, abandoned land squeezed between the meticulously tended resorts. If he walked far enough he would reach new, brash Port El-Kantaoui; worse than Sousse, he had been told, and would avoid. The wind and surf were low, the sand clean and white. The peddlers and exercise groups, the entire atmosphere of tourism and commerce, were gradually receding. He had not had much of an opportunity to be alone of late. There were always countless problems with the university bureaucracy, the endless games of university politics, the endless rounds of Eddie’s illnesses too, his infections, his reactions to the latest drug therapy, the nausea and weight loss. The new drugs were attacking his fat cells for reasons no one could yet explain. The misnamed 9

“cocktail” was keeping him alive, a toast to temporality, to respite, if not to cure. They lived day by day, as he had been taught to do in the Church. “Live in the present; turn over the future to God.” Cornerstones of Catholic spirituality. Eddie dealt with it well, better than he, by relying on verbal levels Maurice could never have cultivated, support groups and his buddies, telephone therapy, and Maurice. If Eddie were here, taking this walk with him now, along this stretch of tranquil beach, they might have had a few moments of something resembling normalcy, with none of the difficulties of their lives standing between them. He had checked again at the desk after breakfast for a fax but there was still none. New York was six hours behind and he did not want to phone until evening. Eddie would be asleep, not a simple matter for him or something Maurice could take for granted. He looked at his watch. It was only eight and he didn’t have to be so obsessed with time here. The opening of the conference was at ten. He could walk a few minutes further before having to turn. The jutting was a silt deposit from ground water seepage, or from a broken drainage pipe from another of those five-star hotels well hidden behind curtains of evergreens and hedges. He had not noticed it. Rills and channels formed a ditch two feet deep but not too wide to jump. He was careful not to get his feet wet, afraid of what the water might contain. The open areas inland were less cluttered, more natural now. Tall palms showed a semblance of health. A few cactus plants were much taller than he. Small, square, white houses mirrored by small, square, barren fields began to appear. A goat cried, dogs barked. The highway must be at some distance or somehow blocked because he could not hear traffic. He suppressed the urge to look at his watch again. He was glad he had come this far; grateful for the isolation, for the quiet wash of the sea, the light wind. There were only a few people about, some so far north they looked like black gnats crawling over the sand. Was it being with Eddie that made him so anxious about time? In the Jesuits time was a matter of fixed schedules, of morning mass at six, breakfast at seven thirty, evening office at eight. Was he reacting 10

to that still? Was his constant fidgeting, his impatience, his anxiety about being late and his obsessive promptness, his life by the clock, were they insistent distractions from listening to himself, to his own voice, to avoiding the inevitability of Eddie’s AIDS? An elderly couple was walking hand in hand toward him. Would that ever be him and Eddie? A lone figure stood at the water’s edge looking out to sea. More like him, Maurice thought. The couple passed without noticing him. He went on a few hundred yards more. Another hotel, a monstrous white affair, larger than any of the others, loomed ahead. He would turn there. He needed to dress for the start of the conference, make a good impression by arriving at the doors of the hall a few minutes early, socialize in one of the many lounges. He started on back. Far ahead he could see it was busier than earlier, but here only the lone figure still stood by the water’s edge. He wore a green flannel shirt, buttoned, because the breeze was cool, cooler to Tunisians than to Maurice, fresh from a New York winter. There were no ships on the horizon and Maurice wondered what he was looking at all this time. Hands hanging at his sides, the figure did not glance around as Maurice approached. He seemed to be playing some sort of game, looking down at his feet, watching the surf wash up onto the sand, stepping back carefully. He seemed to be measuring something, but perhaps it was only that he did not want to get his shoes wet? They were old and torn. He glanced over as Maurice drew near and smiled shyly. Maurice nodded silently. He might be fifteen, with a clear, intelligent face. His eyes darted, lost in thought. His mouth was taut, his brow furrowed in concentration. His baggy shirt accentuated rather than disguised a thin body. His pants were ragged. As Maurice rounded the spit of land again and skirted the drainage ditch, the beach was now quite crowded. The gauntlet of the hard sell would again have to be run. He glanced back, but the boy was still standing there playing with the wash of water to his feet, taking his half steps back, playing his secret game. The sun blazed a trail across the water up onto the sand, and perhaps the boy wanted 11

that trail of light to meet his body directly from the sea, without the intervention of sand. He doubted that a boy would do that though. Why hadn’t he asked him?

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fter the opening of the conference and the afternoon lectures, Maurice went out onto the grounds for another walk before his assigned dinner hour at seven. He wanted to clear his head before attempting to phone Eddie and to rest, shower, and dress for the evening. The proceedings had been more interesting than he had expected. A professor of classical antiquities from Tunis University had given the opening address, the influence of ancient Berber culture on the Romans rather than vice versa, an anti-colonialist social constructionist reading he found provocative, if strained. A woman scholar from the Sorbonne added a feminist perspective on Roman colonial laws governing women, based on new evidence on women slaves she had gleaned from inscriptions recently unearthed near the Roman amphitheater at El Djem, a site to the south he now felt impelled to visit. He extricated himself from the last of the groups, conversation dwindled to small talk, and went out through the front entrance into the warm late afternoon. The hotel was surrounded by formal gardens and flowerbeds, quiet areas where he could sit and read, away from the busy pools. There were various recreation areas, too, play areas for the children and a small children’s zoo, clay tennis courts, a walled desert garden, quiet and empty, even a French-style labyrinth. A pavilion stood at the edge of the beach selling sandwiches and soft drinks. Tables were shaded by white canvas umbrellas and were well back from the beach proper. The air was still and the sun quite warm. After the sleet and ice of a Manhattan winter, the sand and sun were a shock. He would take a drink and sit for a while. Read a few pages of the novel he had with him. He made his way along a gravel path. Just behind the clubhouse there was another children’s play area with swings and slides. As he approached he heard one of the hotel staff shouting at several boys, rough looking youths in their early twenties, lingering 12

anachronistically on the swings. The boy he had seen earlier on the beach was among them, and recognized him. He had changed his clothes and now wore a tee-shirt and shorts. The change of clothing made him seem younger, twelve perhaps, more fragile, vulnerable. The boy smiled and made a discrete gesture of greeting that would have gone unnoticed by the others, still suffering the loud castigations of the staff member. Maurice nodded and smiled back with the same discretion. What was the boy doing with that awful gang? He seemed even more refined, or complicated, in comparison. Still, the friends you choose reflect who you are. The oldest looking of the lot, an obese lout, was acting as spokesperson. They were speaking Arabic and Maurice could only guess from attitudes and expressions that the youth, no doubt defending their right to loiter, was being unsuccessful. He motioned to his companions and they all began to saunter off, but slowly, in defiance. The staff member, himself a youth in his early twenties, turned back toward the hotel and caught Maurice standing there. He might have known the other boys personally, if they were from Sousse. Maurice found the hotel boy attractive and waited for him to approach: a smooth face, full lips, narrow waist, and delicate shoulders. He wore the official hotel garb, black trousers, a white shirt and red tie, but no jacket. Maurice was at least a head taller and burly, a friendly, bearded bear type Eddie called him. He would have groaned about his weakness for flirtatious heterosexual youths with a certain delicacy about them, and Maurice would have denied the boy was his type. The boy smiled. “Bonjour, Monsieur. These town boys, we have to watch them every minute. They think they can just come in here when they want and use the grounds like they were guests. We’re always chasing them out. If you see them again please come and tell me.” His French was better than most of the Tunisians he had encountered. He must have been trained at a hotel school. He had a small scar by his left eye, the faintest trace of roughness made him more attractive. 13

Maurice’s French was good, but not as good as Eddie’s. “They didn’t seem to be harming anything. I mean, they seemed to be pushing the younger boy.” The youth waved his hand dismissively. “That’s what it looked like, but they are always watching the hotel. No, they are no good. A bad lot, I tell you. Well known in the town. Real types. You have to watch out for them.” “Are you from Sousse then?” “Mais non. From Tunis. But I share a room in the town. Until there is one for me here. There are right now more staff than rooms to hold them.” “I would think it would be better to stay in town. More freedom there than here.” “No. Not at all. Here there are many things to do. Music at night. Girls. I hate Sousse. The people are farmers. Now Tunis! That is another story. You’ve seen Tunis?” Maurice was amused. The boy said it as one might say, “Have you seen Paris ?” “No, I landed there but I came straight here.” “It is a beautiful city. I know it backwards and forward. I could take you there one day. Give you a real tour. It is not that far by taxi. An hour or so. You are staying long?” “Just a week, I’m afraid. I’m here for the conference.” “Oh, the conference. Then you’ve just arrived and have lots of time to see Tunis. The medina there is one of the oldest in the world. Halfouine. You’ve seen the film maybe? A terrible film. We all hated it. All it talks about is sex. It gives a bad impression. We are not like that in Tunis. We are cultural. Civilized. A real modern place with a lot of computers.” He had thrust his right hand into his right back pocket, and was swaying back and forth, his head tilted to the side, grinning coyly, certainly flirting. Close up he was quite good looking. Some faces were odd that way, as if the personal mask obscured character at a distance, transparent in proximity. He eyed Maurice mischievously.

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Maurice said, “There’s a great deal I would like to see, but I’m not sure how much I can. The conference and all that. I’m giving a speech tomorrow and another on Thursday, so you see I’m very busy.” The boy touched his hand to his chest, “Please, it will be an honor for me to show you my city. I am here every day. But not on Wednesday or Sunday. Those are my free days. You should not waste a moment on Sousse. Believe me, Tunis is the place.” He took his hand out of his pocket and held it out. “I must leave you now. I have duties. I am Ahmed.” Maurice said his own name in the French way, with the accent at the end. Later, as Maurice was passing though the lobby on the way back to his room he noticed Dobbs sitting in the Moorish lounge café having a cup of coffee and reading a book. He went over. “I’m afraid I’m always interrupting you.” Dobbs glanced up, with no more pleasure than he had shown at breakfast. He merely nodded. Maurice said, “I was just wondering if Wednesday would be a good day for us to have lunch together? At twelve, perhaps?” Maurice was amused to see that he was reading Burton’s Pilgrimage to Al-Madinah & Meccah. If anyone was the diametric opposite of Burton it was Dobbs, more the quintessential armchair traveler. Dobbs looked miffed again, grimaced and said, “Wednesday. Well, all right then. Twelve.” “We’ll meet here then?” “Yes. Very well.” “Good. I look forward to it.” But Dobbs went back to his reading. He really must have taken umbrage with his review. He would probably hear more of it, but there was nothing to be done about it. He checked the desk again for messages but there was still nothing. As soon as he was back in his room he placed a call to New York. The answering machine was on and he left a message saying he would try again later; he was fine, the conference was going

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smoothly, he sent all his love. He was agitated and went onto the balcony. He should have phoned Eddie immediately after the conference. Not hearing his voice made him feel isolated and homesick. There was a small metal table on the balcony. He had seen some hotel stationery in one of the drawers and decided to sit down and write a fax longhand and send it immediately, before showering or resting. My dearest I’ve just left a message for you but wanted to write too. I had hoped to catch you in, hear your voice. You can’t believe how much I miss you. You said I wouldn’t, I hope in jest, but I really really do. I’ll keep trying, of course, and give you details about the conference when we talk but it’s going all right. My speech is tomorrow afternoon and today was mostly opening events. I did meet this awful old queen though. You may remember my mentioning him because I gave his work a mixed review. D. J. Dobbs. An Oxford fellow and old Marxist dinosaur. Gave me the royal snub at first. I’m not very good at snubbery (if that’s a word!) receiving or giving, nor ever will be. I half expect him to show up at my speech tomorrow and cross-examine me with hostile intent, so I’m a bit apprehensive. Weather really glorious. Sunny and warm. Hotel just as garish and gaudy as I feared but I met a cute little thing in the garden. Don’t worry. He’s not my type, and anyway I do do do miss you too much and care enormously about you for that. Anyway, this will have to be enough for now. I want to get it off to you. Hope you can read my scrawl. Imagine writing anything these days in pen and ink! Call immediately when you get in. Lots and lots of love and XXXXXXXX He went downstairs and asked them to fax it for him and waited to get the copy back. Then he went back to his room and onto the

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balcony. There was a table there. He felt lonely. He would begin to keep his diary. Sunday, January 7, Sousse. Alone. Out of sorts. Feeling as if I were standing before a curtain; I try to part it but cannot.

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t was not until Tuesday that Maurice had a chance to get into Sousse and wander the medina. His first address on Monday afternoon had been well attended, two or three times those who had been to hear Dobbs the same morning, he noted with satisfaction seeing him ensconced in the back row. At question and answer time he expected to be challenged about his “symbolic renderings of Roman realities,” or his neglect of the social role of money and commerce, but Dobbs was silent, his arms folded, a frown on his face. His clothing had caused Maurice to lose his concentration for a second or two. The heavy blue suit had been replaced by a khaki desert shirt worn open at the throat. Was his reading of Burton unbuttoning him? Readying him for adventure? He looked around for Dobbs in the breakfast room and afterward around the lobby and pool, but he was nowhere to be seen. If Dobbs were free they could walk into town together, in lieu of their luncheon at twelve. It annoyed him. Now he would have to keep to a schedule and be back by noon. His own fault, really. Hadn’t he 18

practically begged Dobbs for the luncheon? Was he overcompensating for Dobbs’s disagreements? Or worse, wanting approval? There were organized tours of the medina every morning and afternoon for conference members, leaving by bus from the front of the hotel at eight-thirty and four-thirty, but he needed the exercise and wanted to wander in on foot. A conversation he had overheard had raised his curiosity. Some women had stumbled into a brothel district during yesterday’s tour, and had been immediately surrounded by angry locals. Some of them saw it as a male conspiracy and an insult. Their local guide would surely have known where he was going, and wanted to embarrass them deliberately. They had registered a complaint with the hotel management, yet from the level of their discussion the experience had proven fascinating and piqued his interest. In passing, one of the women had also mentioned a district of goldsmiths and gold jewelry shops. This interested Maurice a great deal. His uncle owned a jewelry store in Brooklyn. He had worked there through high school, and had learned enough to dabble in the trade as a hobby. Buying and selling on weekends at his own booth in a Chelsea antique’s market complimented being on digs looking for Grecian artifacts. It provided him with a hobby, a retreat from private and public pressures. Was it something in his personality, some instinct that made him ferret around for valuables and cultural artifacts like some Italian truffle dog? The goldsmith district, and perhaps a quick side trip to the brothel area, gave him a goal. He set off along the beach, southward toward the town. He had at last received a chatty and energetic fax from Eddie and was feeling better about being away: “been sleeping well and am full of energy. . . . The nights can be bad without you. I woke up once in one of my desperation fits and you weren’t there to curl up against. . . . New York can be bleak and alien. . . . The noises from the upstairs oaf put me in a rage. We can’t slough it off with jokes. . . . Helen came by and we took the dogs for a walk in the park. She was ready to chase after some blond jogger. She said it was some movie actress or other but I had no idea who she was talking about. I can just see her with 19

a movie star, can’t you! So, in general we’re doing fine . . . showering you with hugs and kisses.” He had long ago ceased trying to hide his feelings from Maurice and he could feel confident in his reassurances. Eddie’s fax was filled with comforting bit of news from home. “The dogs have gotten over their infection”; their flamboyant Yugoslavian cleaning lady’s tempestuous affair with the doorman was on the rocks again. Eddie was ever the chief conciliator; Maurice generally stayed out of it. “He made her so upset yesterday she put bleach in the color clothes wash and it took hours to calm her down and tell her I liked pink boxers.” Their apartment, their building, their life and friends and daily routine, New York itself and all their variegated realities drifted down his memory in layers, like northern lights. The peddlers were as thick as flies today, this stretch of beach more infested than the northern stretch. Maurice was still not used to it. If he shook his head and answered with a sharp word they would go on to the next person, but he did not always find the right tone and it was wearing. He had heard from friends that Morocco was worse because it was poorer. It was the aggression, the inevitability and inescapably of it all, that most distressed him, as if all the worst elements of Manhattan were being thrown in his face: the crass commercialism, the shoddy goods of dubious origin. Modern life could have the gray shabbiness of cheap cloth. An avenue veered toward the beach, and he went up onto the boardwalk. At the end of the street, above a stone wall, the white buildings of the medina and pencil thin minarets relieved the skyline. There was a great deal of traffic, cabs and buses, old cars and trucks, rattling, spewing diesel fumes and oil. Most of the shops here were selling tourist items, racks of gaudy postcards, bric-a-brac or packaged foods, bottled waters and soda, sunglasses, and the ubiquitous tee-shirts and more tee-shirts, the modern equivalent of sandwich board advertising. These products were no different than the ones he had seen being sold in Crete or Sicily, if the names on the visor hats or the inscriptions on the shirts changed. It was another of his pet peeves. 20

The main gate into the medina was on the other side of the traffic circle. There were no lanes and no light at the crossing. Vehicles sped here and there into whatever space opened for them. He had to dash for it amidst a bedlam of blaring horns. A steady stream of people was moving in both directions through a break in the wall: women with baskets loaded with fresh vegetables, school children in uniform carrying knapsacks and school bags, men in traditional djellaba, a man leading a donkey, others walking their bicycles. But once through the gate the tone was reversed. The thick high stone wall blocked the traffic noise. A fountain splashed in the middle of a square beside the wall of the main mosque. There was an interior hum from the crowd of locals and tourists, schoolchildren and merchants, yet the sound from the outside was muffled, a murmur, a dull background murmur, like a radio or television being played in a distant room. Maurice sat down on the wide edge of the fountain basin thinking he might read his guidebook here, but he was immediately accosted by a young man in his early twenties. The youth had been sitting in a group, but when he saw that Maurice was alone had immediately come over. “English? Deutch? Français? Italiano, Español . . .” the boy rattled off several more languages. Maurice shook his head and said, “American.” The youth continued in English, “Statue of Liberty, Golden Gate, White House. You know Boston? I have a cousin there.” Maurice looked away and did not respond. The fellow was not daunted, “You like Sousse? You been here before? I show you around. You have guide? I know everything. Maybe you want best girls, boys, hashish?” The youth held out his palm, but Maurice rose. The best exit was an abrupt exit. This was not going to be the quiet place he had hoped for. He should have noticed that in advance. The entrance to the Great Mosque was only a few feet away. Yes, this was better protected, quieter. The rent boys would leave him alone here. He imagined that the inside of the mosque, into which he would not be permitted, was quieter still, a progression inward, 21

silence attained in succeeding degrees, from town inward toward a central repose. There was a colonnade around the wall and at the opposite end wooden doors opened into the mosque itself. He could stand at the doorway and look in, but not enter. The Aghlabite architecture was simplicity itself, the decoration left to the Oriental carpets and brass hanging lamps. He liked the air of humility and poverty that he associated with monastic retreats. Everything was unpretentious, like the woolen desert robes, the shuffle of sandals on cobblestone. The warm weather and bright sun were still making him fatigued and dizzy. There was a stairwell leading up onto the wall, perhaps for the calling to prayer. He sat on a lower step in the shade under a portico. Stacks of carefully folded carpets were piled on the floor nearby; prayer rugs for the prayer hours, he supposed. An old man swept the floor with a straw broom. The atmosphere was wonderfully calm and unhurried. Moments like this almost made him nostalgic for his seminary days, for the lack of financial responsibilities, the abrogation of sexual needs. As he gazed up the thick sandstone stairwell to the high pediments he saw that there was something of the fortress defense about it, the hint of desert wars, of defenses against secularism. Men were entering or leaving the mosque area proper, some with the hoods of their robes pulled up, some stopping to put on sandals or shoes. If there was still a connection with the desert, with the life of Bedouins and nomads, the life of the town intersected here as well. Other tourists were wandering in. Maurice heard clicking and muttering to the side of him, a paraplegic in a wheel chair muttering prayers and running beads through his fingers. The man’s eyes were closed and he was nodding. There was a rug over his lap and it was impossible to tell if he had legs. He was in his thirties and extremely thin, like some Indian fakir on a year’s fast. His black hair was long and wispy. His muttering stopped. He opened his eyes and turned his head and looked straight at Maurice as if he had felt his stares. The man’s eyes were black, sharp and intelligent, but not unkind. 22

His stare made Maurice uncomfortable and he decided to try to find the goldsmith district. The old man sweeping the walk came and whispered something to the paraplegic, but he shook his head. Medina streets zigzag back and forth, crisscross over themselves, fade into alleyways, end in dead ends. They are labyrinths of tricks and surprises. If you have no sense of direction you are lost in seconds. Maurice discovered the secret of the Sousse medina immediately. It was built against the side of a slope. If he either went uphill or downhill he would not get lost. His first excursion was simply to get his bearings by following streets that went up. Within minutes he was at a northern gate and out onto a wide avenue. He turned and headed down and now found himself at an enclosed fish market and a district of souqs selling spices and food stuffs. There was another gate here, and when he went through he realized he was just south of the main gate where he had entered. He turned and decided to wander among the spice shops, drawn by their smells and bustle. The alleyways were very narrow; local people were shopping and haggling. Snippets of unintelligible conversation caught his ear. He regretted he did not know Arabic. And best of all, here among the careful triangular stacks of fruits and vegetables, barrels of olives and trays of cardamom, cinnamon, pepper, here away from the tourist streets and beach, people called their wares and prices but did not accost him. Within an hour he was back at the fountain and mosque entrance, without, however, having found the goldsmith district. The rent boy at the fountain was gone, off with someone, probably, though it was still so early in the day. He was very thirsty now. One of the many cafés lining the square had more of a local clientele and atmosphere than the others. The outside tables were also in the shade. He stopped to have a cool drink, choosing a back table away from the panhandlers. Perhaps he should ask the waiter how to find the jewelry district. He looked over his map again but it was not marked. He had a cheap string bag with him, but no camera, and he put the book away. 23

A bearded youth immediately came up to him and asked him in broken English for money. The accent sounded Scandinavian. Maurice shook his head. “No. Sorry.” He looked crazed, or drugged. He persisted and Maurice grew irritable. “Please go away. I’m not going to give you any money.” “Why not? You have it to give. I can see by your clothes.” He muttered under his breath something, which Maurice nevertheless caught, “Filthy capitalist pig.” “Oh for God’s sake. Please leave. Do I have to call the waiter?” The fellow smelled badly. He muttered, “Cheap bastard.” But he moved away. When, however, half an hour later, Maurice got up to continue his walk, the fellow seemed to be following him. He was not sure at first. He stopped by a shop selling pottery, pretending to look at cups and the fellow stopped too. He really was disagreeable looking. His teeth were black. He had tried to grow a full beard over his fair skin, but it was all spikes and ugly tufts. Maurice turned suddenly down a busy street he knew led back to the spice souq, but sure enough the fellow was still following. Perhaps he should have invited him to have a drink. Perhaps he was only hungry. He might have handled it better, if not out of charity, then to deflect the threat. He was beginning to sweat, panic, but pulled himself together and stopped by a huge mound of saffron. He might confront him, tell him to stop following. The youth hurriedly caught up with him and took hold of his sleeve. “Give me some money, you bastard.” He pulled at Maurice’s bag, but Maurice had a firm grasp of it and wrenched it away. The fellow was fumbling in his pocket and brought out a red Swiss army knife. His hands shook and he could not get the blade open. At that moment a group of German tourists poured out of the store, cutting the youth off from Maurice. He seized his chance and hurried to a street that went uphill, quickly turning into another street and then another and another, crossing this way and that, confident he could confuse the fellow and still 24

find his way. He looked back several times, but after the third or fourth turn had lost him. He was suddenly at another gate at the top of the hill. The wide modern avenue was very exposed. The rascal could spot him out there quite easily. The medina was a better cover, and he went back in. Immediately to his left there was an odd wall built out perpendicularly from the main wall, standing about eight feet high but without connecting to the wall opposite, thus creating a narrow passage about three feet wide. Men were squeezing back and forth through it and Maurice followed suit into a straight, open street, unusual for the medina, with short cul-de-sacs leading off of it lined with low, two-story houses: the brothel district. The women were sitting on low stools, or standing in doorways, clicking at people, most of them in their thirties or forties, on the heavy side. A strong smell of disinfectant made the air sickly sweet. There were so many people milling about that he no longer felt threatened. He had been to Amsterdam and knew that red light district. This was a poor cousin, lively and raw, like the poultry hall in the closed market he had seen earlier. Men were adjusting or fondling themselves, not for the benefit of the other men, certainly. A young man in his twenties was obviously masturbating. Perhaps he did not have the fee. No one paid him much attention either. He felt sorry for him. Perhaps he should give him the fee. It would not be much. No one was approaching anyone for money, however. Perhaps in this environment men or youths would not beg, for fear of ridicule, of being misunderstood? At the far end of the straight street was another of the odd part walls and he slipped through, cautiously. He did not want any unexpected encounters with the hippie Rasputin. There was another gate here, too, onto the same avenue. A taxi came immediately. He leaned over the open window and asked the fee. It cost virtually nothing to take him back to his hotel. The threat had unnerved him. As they careened down a wide boulevard, the medina wall on his right, he expected to see at any one of the gates the demonic boy rush out and fling himself on their car. One had to have one’s wits about one here. Was the youth really trying to 25

harm him? He certainly wanted money. How unattractive he was; he could not imagine anyone having sex with him, no matter how desperate they were. Those who made themselves so unappetizing might have to resort to violence to get sex, or money, or whatever they wanted out of life. How did someone let himself get that way? His long hair had been matted; there were layers of grime on his neck; his clothes must have crawled with vermin. Yet, the pale blue eyes, the aquiline nose and sharp chin suggested someone once handsome, or still handsome under the layers of decay. He tried to put him out of his mind. The boulevard forked left along the beach toward the hotel district. The cab veered at no reduction of speed, the driver obviously pleased with his driving skills, if Maurice was not. The boardwalk was very crowded. He glanced at his watch. It was just past eleven. He had nearly forgotten his appointment with Dobbs at twelve, but at this rate he would be back at his hotel in under five minutes. Despite the early hour, the scene along the walk to his right reminded him of the Italian passeggiata, the evening parade down the main street to show off your new clothes or yourself. Just the week before he had been sitting with Meursault at a café on the Boulevard St. Germaine watching the gay parade, the hookers and transvestites, queers and rough trade. Everyone wanted to be noticed, Meursault said, because modern life was so anonymous, because the private life of the individual was being lost. Maurice did not want to be noticed now, speeding by it all in a cab as if in some archetypal dream, unseen but seeing. What did that make him then? Something startled him, interrupting his train of thought; he quickly glanced back as the car sped on, and shouted for the driver to stop. Taken by surprise, by the force of Maurice’s insistence, the driver stopped too abruptly, with a screech of tires. Maurice felt sheepish. He had seen the boy from the beach sitting on the low wall that separated the boardwalk from the sand. The fat, brutish youth who had been with him in the hotel grounds was there too, waving his arms threateningly, berating the boy for something.

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By the time the cab stopped they were already several hundred feet past the boys, and Maurice walked back cautiously. Yes, it was the boy. He slowed his pace to take further stock of the situation. Maurice was tall and stocky, nearly six foot and two hundred pounds. His complexion was ruddy; he kept his graying beard well trimmed, swam at the Columbia pool, was proud of being fit. But he did not like fights. The fat, ugly youth was shouting now. He brandished a fist in the boy’s face, shook him by the shoulders. The boy knocked his hands away. The lout tried to pull him to his feet, but again the boy knocked himself free. Maurice felt he should intervene. If he simply began walking toward them they would probably recognize him. He could pretend not to have noticed the aggression, happen by in a casual way. But the situation was further complicated as a motorbike drew up to the curb. He recognized the third boy from the hotel grounds. His hair was shaven off. A scar drew his right eye down. The two older ones really looked like bad types. What was the boy doing with them? Was he part of a gang? Was one of them his brother? None of them looked related. They were trying to coax him to get on the bike, but he was shaking his head and pushing them away. The brute grabbed him by the arm and started shaking him, shouting again. Maurice now quickened his pace. He would interfere. But the situation settled itself. The brute pushed the boy backward so that he nearly fell over the wall onto the sand. The lout yanked the driver off the seat of the bike and took his place, forcing the driver to climb on behind; he spat at the boy’s feet, gunned the motor and they sped off, obscene gestures hurled behind them. Maurice approached. The boy sat with his back to the sea and was looking down at his feet. Maurice stopped, said hello. The boy glanced up, his face pale, serious, registering no surprise. “Are you all right? They were bullying you.” The boy looked blank. There was a red blotch on the side of his face. Had the brute slapped him? He hadn’t seen that, but it must have happened. He sat down on the wall next to him, feeling guilty

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that he had not hurried over and intervened. He pointed at the boy’s cheek. “Did he hit you?” The boy touched his cheek and nodded. He might cry. “My name is Maurice. You?” The boy shrugged, and shook his head. Perhaps he did not speak French. Maurice pointed to himself, and said again, more slowly, “Je m’appelle Maurice.” The boy blushed, shrugged, and pointed to his ears and lips. He was a deaf-mute. Maurice rifled around in his jacket pocket and found a notepad, scribbled his name, showed it to the boy, pointed to himself, then handed the pad to him. With great difficulty the boy wrote “N-I-D-H-A-L” and handed the pad back. If he could not hear or speak perhaps he could not write very well either. But Maurice had another thought. He knew how to form one or two words in Arabic script and formed the word for “fish” under the name Nidhal, then pointed to his Arabic word and handed the pad back to the boy who wrote his name again in script with flourishes, and ease. He gave the pad back to Maurice and smiled broadly, pleased that Maurice had caught on. He was very badly dressed, in hand-me-down light brown trousers a size too large. They had been mended many times but were clean. A threadbare cloth belt seemed more likely to snap than support. He had old, torn sports shoes on his feet, but not of any brand name, no wristwatch, or even the strips of colored plastic boys wove for bracelets. The color of his shirt, a pale washed green, did not suit him. One side of the pocket was hanging down, torn. Now that Maurice saw him this close he decided the boy was not really handsome; he was even homely. But there was an air of familiarity about his face, a face that did not make you ill at ease, as did the blond medina devil; it was an animated face, used to expressing messages, alert. He had thin lips and his eyes darted about intelligently. His hair was hacked off irregularly, adding to his sense of being perpetually startled. How would he look if he were dressed properly with clothes that brought out his best features; had a proper haircut? 28

Maurice wrote on the pad, “frère/brother?” and pointed in the direction the motor scooter had sped. The boy tipped his hand back and forth and shrugged, which Maurice took to mean not necessarily “brother” but related in some way. He again wrote, “12? 13?” The boy shook his head, took the pencil and wrote “15.” But he did not seem that. The boy pointed to himself, then to Maurice, and made walking motions, pointing to the beach northward. He must have wanted to be out of sight of the louts if they came speeding back down the highway. Maurice nodded. As they began along the beach the boy made swimming motions but Maurice shook his head. He really must keep the appointment with Dobbs and attend his afternoon seminar. He pointed to his wristwatch, holding up four fingers; and as they came abreast of his hotel he pointed to himself and the hotel. The beach was strewn with reclining chairs and umbrellas. The stools around the thatched covered bar were alow wall and fence nearby. There was a place in the shade there near ll taken. Maurice pointed to a some bushes. He held up four fingers again and pointed. The boy nodded eagerly and made more swimming motions. Maurice nodded. He found Dobbs standing by the main desk, replacing the house phone in its cradle. He was again formally dressed, for his speech that afternoon. It was not yet twelve, but Maurice said, “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting?” “Not at all. I only just got here. I wasn’t sure if we’d said the lobby or not and I was phoning your room. You were probably on your way down.” Maurice nodded, and Dobbs said, “I was thinking we might go into the bar there, have a drink first?” “I don’t drink much. Especially this early. But I would like some coffee. Or something to eat. I’m feeling a bit faint.” They began to walk across the crowded reception area toward an arcade of shops. “I hope you’re not coming down with one of these African virus things.” “No. I just had an awful shock in the medina.” 29

“You do look quite pale. We should get you some strong sweet tea. They have sandwiches, salads, and the like over there. Something light. It will steady you.” Dobbs led the way into one of the Western style cafés. They found a quiet table in a corner. He waved for the waiter as he settled into his chair. “You weren’t robbed, were you? That sort of thing is rife around here.” “No. Nearly though. Someone pulled a knife on me and I had a narrow escape.” “Good God! We do have to be on our mettle around here, don’t we.” The waiter came almost immediately. Dobbs ordered a dry martini for himself, and Maurice decided on the tea. They would wait a bit before choosing meals. “So what on earth happened?” Dobbs seemed genuinely concerned and Maurice answered, “It was very stupid, really. This boy with a knife. Well, not exactly . . . I mean, he couldn’t even get it open. I was wandering around the medina and this young man started following me . . . stalking me is more exact. I thought he was harmless enough but then he pulled a knife out of his pocket, but had trouble getting the blade open. A Swiss army knife. I think he was Scandinavian.” “No doubt one of those addicts that seem to think North Africa is their Mecca. It must have given you a terrible fright.” “I’m usually very cool. I’ve had a lot of close encounters. Being on digs and that all over the world but somehow this was different.” “How so?” “I don’t know. There was a sort of, well, malice in it.” “Malice?” “Yes. Something more than just being drugged. Or crazy.” “Not just mad? These people can be quite berserk.” “No. Something darker.” “Madness can be quite dark, you know.”

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“It was as if he wanted to do willful harm. Anyway, I should never have let my guard down.” “Oh, come now. Not everything’s our fault, you know. There are some things we can’t prevent. We can only cope with them when they happen.” “I’m not sure that’s true in this case. I wish it was, though. I consider myself a seasoned traveler. One shouldn’t let one’s guard down when one travels. I just wasn’t paying attention. At least it was a good warning.” “Warning?” “To be on my mettle as you put it.” “Right you are, too!” Maurice laughed. “You think Sousse is particularly dangerous, then?” “Oh no, not at all. Just that one needs to cultivate a certain alertness. It’s a deceptively soft place. The perfect weather, the sea and sand, the odious white palace hotels like this one. We’re easily lulled by the veneer. You were lucky, you know.” “I suppose I was.” “No doubt the police were nowhere to be seen?” “No.” “They rarely are where you want them. I doubt if they would have been that helpful anyway. Or if they had been it would have cost you a lot of money. They are quite corrupt.” “To tell you the truth it never even passed through my mind to look for them. I had already oriented myself in the medina and I felt that I could shake him off.” “Oriented yourself ? Now that was clever.” “Not really. Just an old archaeologist’s trick. When I arrive at a new site I walk around, get the lay of the land, an overview. It makes me feel secure in a new place.” “I shall be sure to try it.” Was Dobbs being sarcastic? He shouldn’t rush to judgment. He had the tendency to be hasty about new people. Eddie had often

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faulted him for it. Dobbs seemed genuinely concerned about the effects of his encounter. Was he more kindly than competitive? Maurice said, “The Sousse medina is a simple one, really. The one in Fez is quite a maze. But the one here simply goes up and down a slope. It’s all you have to remember, really. I must have led him a merry chase, though. Poor fellow.” “Poor fellow, indeed! But you are clever. I’ve been here twice before and never noticed that.” “Then you know Sousse well?” “Not well, no. Tunis a bit better. A friend of mine is very generous with his villa in Sidi Bou Said. One needs to get away from Oxford winters to keep one’s sanity. Rain, rain, and more rain. It’s quite defeating, really. For a couple of years I took a flat in Carthage to do some classical research. I had a chance to buy it for nothing, nothing at all, but I decided against it at the last moment. Regrettably.” “Why didn’t you?” “Oh, I don’t know. Just another missed opportunity, I suppose. Life is full of them, isn’t it?” “Yes, I suppose it is. But you keep coming back?” “Something keeps drawing me back. That something under the veneer, I suppose.” Their tea came and the waiter took their food order, for Maurice a salad, for Dobbs a full meal and a bottle of wine with two glasses. When the waiter left, Dobbs said, “Let me ask you a question. A private survey I do. It’s rather a hobby of mine. I like to collect first impressions.” “First impressions?” “Yes. If you don’t mind. I would really like to know your first impression of Sousse.” “Well, I didn’t like it at all.” “That was your first impression then?” “My first . . . well, let me think. . . . In fact I don’t think it was.” “And?” “It was the instinctual. I felt it was close to the surface here.” “The instinctual?” 32

“Yes.” “You mean superstitions? Magic? As among Moroccan women?” “No. Not superstition. The whole range of instincts. They are closer to the surface here. We bury them more.” Dobbs said, “I don’t suppose I understand. I do find the people very sympathetic, however. Not in the tourist towns, of course, but the real people.” At first Maurice thought it was a non sequitur. He replied, “Instinctual? Is that an uncomfortable word for you?” Dobbs laughed, “For a materialist historian, you mean? Not at all!” Maurice blushed. “I hope I haven’t given the wrong impression.” His mood was improving. With Eddie he had the tendency to prolong his bad moods to gain sympathy, but here he felt the bad feelings of the day dispersing rapidly. Dobbs asked, “Do you mind if I smoke? I know how much Americans object to it.” “No, it’s all right.” He drew out a long thin Danish cigar that made an acrid smell tinged with something sweet. Maurice remembered that women liked to smoke them in Copenhagen. Such an odd combination of the dowdy and debonair. Maurice wondered what sort of house he kept in Oxford. Musty? Filled with books and old photographs of himself at various university functions? With the Queen? Or uncluttered? With Oriental rugs? Clean and neat? He would have thought the latter. What did he have hidden in secret places? In the private drawers? Dobbs interrupted his thoughts by asking, “Will you stay on after the conference?” “No, I don’t think so. Will you?” “Yes. For a month.” “In . . . where was it again?” “Sidi Bou Said. Yes. I have the house to myself again.” Was this a hint? It could not be, Maurice decided, but still he added, “I have to be back in New York for the new semester.” 33

“Yes, I know, Columbia.” “I came via Paris and want to spend a few more days there before going on back. With a close friend. You might know him. Henri Meursault.” Dobbs nodded. “The novelist. I don’t know him personally but I’ve read some of his books. His AIDS memoir recently. Does he still call himself a disaffected Marxist?” “No.” “His book is one of the best written about AIDS. Quite affecting.” “Yes, I think so too.” Maurice was about to intrude a personal note, but paused. He was feeling comfortable around Dobbs, to his surprise, so he added, “My friend Eddie . . . Edmund Kelley . . . is his translator. That’s how we met him.” “Yes. My French is passable but not proficient. I made a note of the translator because the translations seemed so good. Does he work closely with Meursault?” Maurice was pleased that he knew Eddie’s work and made a mental note to mention it in his next fax home. “They work very closely. Eddie used to stay with Meursault for a month, or even two, while they edited a final draft. He’s just written a study of Henri’s novels. It’ll be out in the fall.” “I’ll be sure to look for it. So, you’ll be leaving as soon as the conference ends then?” Maurice nodded. “Yes.” “There really are Roman sites you should try to see while you’re here.” “I was planning to. There are several day trips they’re offering and I was thinking of doing at least the Roman amphitheater at El Djem.” “Splendid place. I prefer it to the Roman Coliseum. Be sure not to go with the conference tour, though. It’s much more rewarding alone. It can be quite enchanting, in the early morning. Usually deserted, a few stragglers here and there. You have to get there by nine, just as they open it. Thursday is also market day. You should definitely go then. And Dougga also. I’m quite fond of Dougga.” 34

“I hope I’ll have the time for it all.” The waiter returned with their meals. Maurice realized he was quite hungry, though he was not in the habit of eating large meals at noon, or sometimes anything at all. He was even feeling a bit celebratory. Dobbs poured wine for him and they toasted each other’s conference speeches. Dobbs said, “We were speaking of impressions . . . first impressions . . . instincts. But I think you were going to say more and I interrupted you?” “Well, yes, I was going to add something . . . though perhaps not a first impression, perhaps more a first observation.” “No matter. I’d still like to hear it.” “When I was wandering the medina, before the boy accosted me, it occurred to me that life in the medina was a shell game, a shell game with a difference because there is a pebble under each shell. It is like the fable of the tiger behind the door. Choose that door and you are devoured, choose any of the others and you go free, but in this case there is no tiger. All the doors are safe. No matter which shell you choose, you win.” Dobbs finished the thought for him, “And so the secret of the game really must be in the playing?” “Yes, I think so. But you look skeptical. Don’t you agree?” Dobbs thought for a long time before replying, “Well, as a matter of fact, I don’t. . . . No. As a matter of fact I don’t agree at all.” Tuesday, January 9, 11:00 p.m. As I was walking with Nidhal for the first time along the beach this afternoon, before my luncheon with Dobbs and the conference seminars, I felt certain that there were things I could say about him that were true and would not have to be tested with time. His sadness; more than just a mood. I doubt if it’s only because of the way I saw him being treated when I came upon him on the boardwalk, or anything I can extrapolate from his poor clothes and badly cut hair. He focuses on my face and eyes whenever he tries to ask 35

something or answer something I’ve asked, gives me, that is, his full intention, which is much more than I can say for my students. His pride; he carries himself with his back straight, shoulders squared, head high. He looks around, notices, points at things: birds diving for fish, a boy riding a white horse, crabs that scurry across the sand. He’s more “in the world” than I am. More communicative; through signs and short messages scribbled in bad French, hand gestures and glances, body poses and postures, shrugs, nods, turns of the head, smiles and frowns; a language of signs, suggestions, and silences. Not being heard, nor being able to talk to each other is not as strange as I’d have thought. I don’t know any sign language and so I make up obvious gestures, for walking and waiting and swimming, nods and facial expressions for yes, no, and maybe. I’ll have to have him teach me the correct ones. I feel peaceful around him. His eyes dart about making me aware of some interior process. He sometimes bites his lower lip. Looks of anxiety flash across his face. Or a smile, because of me, or not because of me. Does he engage in endless interior “monologues”? Can he have “dialogues” with himself or any of the figures that people our subconscious? If he were to speak his thoughts, dreams, imaginings, would they somehow differ from what other boys his age reveal? Does he only want to drive the motorbike of his companion, whether brother or friend? Have sex, make a lot of money, drink fine wine and eat fine foods? Or does he have exotic wishes? To fly? To become a hero, or rock star? What is an interior life uncharacterized by sound? Can I hope to imagine it? I’m hopelessly conditioned and dependent for everything on words spoken or heard. It’s a relief to be forced into silence. When we met for the second time later in the afternoon, I was late and he was already waiting in the shade by the fence. He looked angry and impatient and didn’t smile as I 36

approached, perhaps thinking I wouldn’t come. How many times has this happened to him? I’d made the decision in the interim to try to communicate with him without writing anything down, as he so obviously had trouble with French and I had no Arabic. We don’t have a common language in any conventional sense, don’t have to struggle with the translation from one cultural context to another not just words, but concepts and connotations, try to make ourselves understood through words that are deeply unintelligible. And by eliminating the spoken word, I realize that words were always a problem for me. That I was always correcting impressions others had about me, always failing to understand Eddie, or “say what I felt.” To fall into silence is a relief. To open myself to other ways of understanding, of “getting to know him” tests levels of perceptions, brings to the surface the real means of our knowing others. Silence could be the great equalizer. If I don’t project. Language has always failed me. I don’t mean my feeble attempts at French, but my native tongue. When I am with Meursault’s friends, and they see how little I know their language, they scale back, slow down, simplify. And those few times when I have given lectures in grade schools about my adventures or expeditions, I don’t speak the same kinds of sentences that I would were I in my college classroom. I don’t think this is condescending, or leveling down, but an adjustment to, or acceptance of, reality. Around Nidhal I must restrict myself, innovate, ask questions by the raising of an eyebrow, a smile, the turned up corner of my mouth. I point to my mouth, make chewing motions and raise my eyebrows. It is all perfectly clear. As we were walking, north again toward where I first saw him that first day, he grew excited, took my hand to pull me along faster, pointed toward a huge white elephant of a hotel sitting behind high green cedars and thick rhododendron hedges. He made the same sweeping motions with his hands 37

and pointed again, nodded vigorously because I must have shown reluctance or skepticism. He wanted to swim in some hotel pool where we did not belong? Had he done this before and gotten away with it? Would we be thrown out? Was I mad to be taking a strange boy to a place I didn’t know or belong, didn’t know me or would want me around? But that was his plan. He’d made it clear earlier. I had put my bathing suit on under my khaki pants. He headed straight for a break in the undergrowth, left to grow a bit wild as a natural enclosure for the extensive grounds. The hotel was in the distance, at the other end of the gardens, a sprawling affair with some semblance of a regional architecture, divided into low, separated square bungalows with rounded roofs, reminding me of the trulli of southern Italy livened with brilliant blue shutters. He was pulling me toward an arbor of scarlet bougainvillaea, beds of roses and lavender. Through the arbor there was a smaller pool, completely deserted and hidden from the main pool off closer to the main building. Perhaps it was for staff, or the children of staff, as it was shallow. It was clever of him to have discovered it, to be so confidently leading me there, with no fear of discovery or interruption, it seemed. There were white tables and padded wicker chairs, shaded by white cloth umbrellas, by the pool. He went to the nearest one and beckoned me over, taking my bag from me, putting it on the chair, pointing to the pool, to me, to himself; impatient, eager. He was already undressing. He had stripped off his tee-shirt. He was wearing ragged light gray cotton trousers. He kicked off his old sneakers and put a foot into the water, turned and grinned. When he undressed it was again with the same narrowed concentration, as if unaware that other people might come upon us by accident, or that I was watching. His shirt, his pants were laid, not flung, carefully on a chair. How many objects could he own, how many toys or clothes? Did he have his own room? His light 38

blue briefs were too small for him, faded and torn. All his body fat had been melted off. He was wiry, his legs straight and muscular, hairless. He fell, rather than dove, into the water; thrashed rather than swam. He stood and folded his arms across his chest, hunching his shoulders as if cold in this heat. He was watching me as I removed my shirt and trousers and walked to the edge. I beckoned him aside as I wanted to dive straight out in a shallow dive as I could see the pool was not too deep. He pushed himself through the water to get out of the way and I dove in. I am a strong swimmer. Pools have meant for me the onset of desire and identity. It was at the Knights of Columbus pool when I was only thirteen that I saw my first “him” standing at the edge of the high diving board plunging straight into my emotions. The association always brings a fond, calm feeling, of something familiar, of a place I can be and exercise and feel a sense of body with self confidence. I floated on my back to the other side of the pool and then waved him over. He swam toward me badly, flailing the water, stood up next to me panting, an enormous amount of energy expended for the few feet gained. I went up to him and put one hand on his neck and the other on the small of his back and motioned for him to lie back, which he did very hesitantly, a bit mistrustfully. But when I did not let go of him I could feel him relax trustfully. The hair plastered to his head made him look startled and fragile. I walked him around in circles and he saw immediately that he had to kick his feet to help stay afloat. My arms grew tired and I set him down carefully, so he would not sink or be frightened. His face brightened and he threw himself into the water again and again began his thrashing about. Then stood and grinned. This was his fun, his freedom; this is how he forgets his troubles. I got out of the pool and sat watching him for a while.

39

4 T

he bus for conference members was to leave at eight from the front of the hotel for the excursion to El Djem. Maurice was still a little unsure of himself after the medina incident and did not want to try one of the group taxis Dobbs had mentioned. He arrived early to secure a window seat at the front and settled down to wait for the others to board, armed with an assortment of reading material, a fax from Eddie and guidebooks: “the Roman coliseum is a three-tiered structure constructed between 230 and 238 . . . not as large as the one in Rome but better preserved.” He took out his map. El Djem was at the edge of the desert, a seemingly isolated place for a grandiose structure if one looked with modern eyes. But the town had been a wealthy marketplace and economic hub catering to rich merchants demanding entertainment: grist for Dobbs’s Marxist mill. The desert tribes created powerful symbols, such as mock battles and trial by combat, which might also have encouraged the coliseum’s construction. Had there also been a Roman temple? He found no evidence of it in his sketchy guidebook, but the contrast of desert and settlement, of vast, silent spaces and the noise and clutter of towns, would 40

have been a good setting for such. Located along caravan routes, it had been not just an ancient crossroads but the site of modern battles, Rommel at Kassarine. He unfolded some pages he had with him, photocopies he had made in the library before his departure from other reference sources. An informed tourist was not a tourist, and if not a scholar either, at least an intelligent traveler. Among the papers was Eddie’s latest fax. Some words had caught his attention as he had retrieved it from the desk: “fever, but nothing to worry about.” He wished Eddie would not throw out tidbits with explanations that were bound to make him anxious. He was fishing in his bag to find the fax when a woman sat down next to him. “I’m sorry. I should have asked if this seat were taken.” “No. It’s empty.” She offered her hand, “Elaine Mirkin. McGill. We met at the conference in Toronto a year ago?” “Oh yes, I remember. Are you enjoying the conference?” “Yes. Very much. And you?” “Yes. I thought Dobbs’s speech yesterday was particularly good. We don’t see things eye-to-eye, he and I, but he presented his case convincingly.” “You’re a Jungian, aren’t you? To tell you the truth, I preferred your talk.” “I’m flattered, but I don’t really call myself a Jungian.” “Oh, I’m sorry. I meant it as a compliment.” “I came to archaeology by way of comparative religion and theology. My undergraduate years. I was a Jesuit, you see. You know, myths and symbols. That sort of thing.” He was not sure why he was telling her all these things about himself. He added, “I saw your name on the list for tomorrow, didn’t I?” “Yes. I have the rostrum for tomorrow afternoon’s session.” “You’re an art historian.” She nodded. “I’m giving a slide lecture on Greek and Roman sculpture trends in Tunisia. There was more than I thought, some of it quite important. There have been marvelous things unearthed in 41

Carthage, hardly known outside a handful of experts. No one has ever been interested in borrowing things from the museums here for shows outside the country, and most of it hasn’t been studied extensively. A form of male colonialism, I suppose. You steal the art treasures, but you don’t borrow them.” “Surely all that’s changing.” “Too slowly. I mean, look at the row over the Elgin marbles.” The driver climbed in and closed the door. The motor ground but did not start. The driver exited; there was much consternation, shouting, waving of arms, brandishing of fists. One of the hotel staff came aboard and said they would have to disembark. They had sent for another bus. It would be there in an hour. Complimentary coffee and cakes would be available for them in the dining room in a few minutes. They were so sorry for the inconvenience, but it would all turn out all right soon. It irritated him. Well, why not try one of the group taxis then? On his wanderings through the medina he had run across the louage station at one of the upper gates. Should he proceed on his own, perhaps join the conference tour later for the return leg? Ask Dobbs or Mirkin to join him? Dobbs had not shown up for the bus and he remembered that he said he had been to the site before. He preferred to go alone in any case. A group taxi would be an adventure of sorts, if not a misadventure. He hailed a cab at the end of the hotel drive and was at the louage station in ten minutes. There were several idling with El Djem signs, for the most part long limousines, or minivans of various sizes and age, most covered with sand, scarred and rickety, not meant to build confidence in their ability even to make short journeys without mishaps. As he walked up and down the line trying to make up his mind he was accosted several times, but had already learned the right, dismissive tone, firm but friendly. Several drivers were standing together. “Where are you going, Monsieur?” “El Djem.” “Ahmed over there, by the blue car . . . he’s going to El Djem. He’s a good driver.” He was pointing to an elderly man standing by 42

a freshly polished, navy blue sedan. “It is better to have an old driver, you know,” the man added. He noticed a sly glance pass between the man and the other drivers. But he asked, “Why is that?” The speaker’s companions were watching him carefully, “Because the young ones are impatient . . . zip zip. They go too fast and it is all over.” Everyone laughed. He had fallen into an off-color trap. He smiled politely, but he did not mind being made the fool and it put him in a better mood. He said, “Merci, Monsieur, I’ll be sure to choose an older man.” And was met with return laughter. He went over to Ahmed’s car. Two women were sitting in the back seat. They were well dressed and carried briefcases instead of shopping bags. He greeted them through the open window and asked if the louage were meant for El Djem. They assured him it was. Was it market day, did they know? They misunderstood him. The woman nearest him said, “We are inspectors for the Bank of Tunis. We have a branch there. We wouldn’t know about markets.” He sensed that he was slightly off kilter about things today. Perhaps he could read Eddie’s fax in the louage and stop worrying, but, no, it was too crowded for that. The road was dusty. Clouds formed behind the car. Trucks ahead sprayed an even coat of grit over the windshield so that the driver had to use the wipers several times, the sprayed sand as thick as gnats. The villages and towns along the way were poor. Shops fronted directly onto the road, with no walk, their side streets unpaved. Groups of children were on their way to school, dressed in the same gray uniforms he had seen in France. Many of the advertising signs were in French, or even English; some street names were of French heroes or events, vestiges of colonial ties. Groves of olive began to appear, well tended, the trees evenly dispersed. The man next to him complained that wealthy companies controlled them. Smaller plots with clutches of prickly pear, here and there a tethered goat, gardens of withered greens, a lone, robed man standing in a 43

dirt lane, were more emblematic. The louage was keeping a reasonable speed. They saw police patrols several times but were not stopped. Sometimes they wanted bribes, someone said, but if they saw tourists aboard left the car alone. The road dipped and rose and at one of the rises Maurice caught his first glimpse of the flattened brown disc of the amphitheater like some broken wooden wheel. His heart quickened. It was lost to sight, reappeared, disappeared finally into the cluster of low houses. As they entered the town, the road was lined with gas stations, general stores, tourist shops, and fast-food restaurants. The louage deposited them on the edge of the main market. The crowd was dense but he liked the liveliness, the interest. If he had been in a hurry he would have found it annoying or intimidating, but he had the whole day free. The obsessive habit of looking at his watch every few minutes as he ran from class to library to office to class around the Columbia campus was already giving way to the occasional curious glance. He glanced at his guidebook again before venturing into the maelstrom. “The town was called Thysdrus, with a population of some 30,000 to 40,000, the coliseum seating even more than that, whereas today there were only about 6,000 inhabitants. It was the market town of the region then, and still is now.” But he put the book away and made his way down the first row of stalls. The predominant turban was red-and-white check and he wondered whether this were Shiite or Berber, making a note to ask. Some women wore the veil, most did not. The agricultural district must lie nearby, though he had not seen much more than the olive groves along the route from Sousse. Figs and dates, citrus fruit, various nuts and beans, stacks of tomatoes, potatoes, and green vegetables predominated. Piles of cages packed with squawking frightened chickens or fluttering thrush formed the walls of narrow impassable lanes prefabricated in the open square. Mounds of spices, frankincense, bright-colored bolts of cloth, stacks of traditional carpets and blankets, desert fossils and rocks, displays of pottery shards, pieces of antique statues and old coins were intermixed with used car parts, 44

carburetors and gaskets, fenders, hub caps, an array of mechanical and electrical gadgets, wires and tools that could not repair anything new. Someone had told him that the French government gave the Tunisians old trucks and cars to aid the economy, which would in turn demand the purchase or donation of parts, or mechanics to fix them or teach the skills. How clever the French were about the Arab countries, ingratiating themselves in oblique ways as a vestige of control. Wherever he had encountered these Muslim marketplaces he felt as if he were looking at a cross-section of temporal sediment. The crowd forced him to a snail’s pace. No one was trying to accost him, shouting their bargains but not clutching his sleeve. As he passed a thrush-seller, the man took a shrill squawking bird from a cage and with a large knife cut its head off, holding it bleeding down to the sand to drain it. Maurice pushed back to protect his trousers and was shoved from behind. The sight horrified him. He and Eddie treated their dogs, their rare Fauve de Bretagne pedigree dogs they had imported via Henri from a French breeder, as if they were sacred Egyptian beings. The abrupt severing of life frightened and excited him, and made him feel as if he had caught a flash of his beloved ancient world. In a couple of minutes he rounded a curve in the side street and suddenly was in front of the entrance to the coliseum, as if the massive structure had sprung up from the ground triggered by tripwires. He looked back. The street was empty. A drowsy guard sat on a wooden chair next to the entrance and hardly stirred as he paid his entrance fee. He was lucky. There was no one inside. The structure was indeed better preserved and in some ways grander than the Coliseum in Rome. Restoration work had been done on it in a sensitive way, and the sandstone gleamed as if recently waxed. He went up onto one of the tiers and sat down. In Rome such crowds imposed on you that none of the monuments had a chance to breathe, or speak. But here he was, sitting by himself in a major Roman site. In all his travels he could not remember that happening before. In Siracusa the temple sites had been overrun and there had even been the incident of the man flashing himself to some young girls, much 45

upsetting them, not at all funny at the time. Swallows darted among the arches and pillars, racing around an obstacle course to rest on a column edge. He could not really concentrate on the guidebook: “a summer festival of international symphonic music held in the amphitheater every year . . . perfect acoustics . . . Sufis from the oasis town of Nefta also perform.” Sufis and symphonies, a far cry from its use as a place of entertainment, anguish, and blood. Why did he love the Romans so much? They could be barbaric. From such a safe distance he inured himself against their cruelty, the state sanctioned spilling of life, if not as entertainment then as rationale for the common order. Then, as now. He was not indifferent to killing. He sent in his donation to the anti–capital punishment league. On some level, did history numb him? The thrush-seller draining life into the sand was of a world where the dividing line between life and death was thin. Perhaps this is what he was feeling here. The defenses and stratagems he used to cope with Eddie’s AIDS kept death at bay, but here it was breaking down, or he was letting himself recognize it at least. He rifled in his bag for the fax. What had Eddie meant, “nothing to worry about”? Where was the sentence? “I had that low grade fever again this morning but nothing to worry about.” But he would. They both would. The last time it had indicated a blood infection and taken weeks to cure. It meant that Eddie would go to see Robert today to have it checked, but Maurice would not be there to support him. Perhaps he had already telephoned Robert? But as he scanned the fax he did not see it mentioned. Dearest . . . I was talking with Henri last night and he said what an impression you made on his young students when you gave your lecture, something your false modesty would never let you admit yourself. He told me the most amazing thing happened. Your French was suddenly perfect! He expected to see a tongue of fire over your head. All his students were mad about you although as usual you didn’t have the faintest idea 46

of your effect. Or let on. He went on especially about some posh boy called Guy de Montfort? Well, you didn’t mention him at all, you naughty boy. Henri said he was chasing you like mad, absolutely desperate to get you and you barely gave him the time of day! Apparently comes from a brilliant family, is wildly rich, eighteen, sweet as anything and beautiful to boot? Anyway that’s Henri’s description, but I know as well as you how he can lay it on when he wants to incite me or make me jealous. But really it would be just like you to totally miss a perfectly good flirtation. Or nobly pretend to for my sake? You know if you want to have a little thing on the side I won’t mind, and this Guy sounds like just the right boy for you my dear; sensitive and svelte. Of course Henri would think an old lemon peel was beautiful if it paid attention to him. Do tell your side of the story. Please. I must tell you something Maxie did a couple of nights ago. He was sleeping on the sofa and for no apparent reason got up, and went and sat in front of the fax machine. A half hour later when it rang and started to whirr he barked. And it was your fax! I had been watching him wondering what on earth he was doing but I didn’t expect that. How did he know? Is he connected to you somehow across an ocean? I’ve been telling everyone about it but no one has what sounds like the right explanation. I’ll let you know what happens when you fax me again. Of course Minnie is her usual blasé self, couldn’t be bothered about anything except getting fed on time and having her walks, the spoiled old thing. Oh yes, I forgot to mention something else that Henri said happened—but after you left. It seems there’s rumors floating around Paris that he’s going to get a Legion d’Honneur highest grade with zillions of echelons or whatever. Henri being Henri he told me he was thinking of refusing it because no one has stirred up the establishment much since Sartre refused the Nobel Prize. I can’t see why he just doesn’t accept it gracefully. Probably he will too. But, of 47

course, first he’ll think it to death. Maybe you can have a good talk with him on your leg home. All this intellectualizing everything. He wasn’t very pleased with my comparing his to Barthes’s oblique way of talking about sex so I changed my last chapter—again, for the umpteenth time to suit him. He insists I overemphasize Barthes’s influence, but I don’t think so. After all they were close friends during the Le Monde era and even traveled to South East Asia together chasing after brothel boys, acting pretty decadent. I hope I have softened things a bit without caving in completely. When you’re back I want you to read it. I had a low grade fever this morning but nothing to worry about. I phoned Robert and he said it didn’t sound like anything to him because I didn’t have any co-symptoms. But I’ll go and see him this afternoon and they’ll do some tests. There’s a huge stack of mail already for you. Do you want me to open the things from school? Peter is coming to dinner tonight but I told him he has to do the cooking. Have you had any more conversations with that ole queen Dobbs? Your description of him was quite funny. You never said a word about how your speech went. I’m sure it was brilliant. Honestly, what you don’t realize is that you’re depriving me of the pleasure of your accomplishments. . . . He reached the bottom of the page and realized much to his annoyance that there should be more. The machine at the hotel must have quit too early, or they may have missed a page when they gave it to him. He folded it and put it back in his bag. The interior of the amphitheater was beginning to trap the heat and he was tiring of the stale water in his bag. The motor of a tourist bus forewarned him of the crowd of Japanese tourists that would file through the gate. There must be cafés in the center. Perhaps he would have a thick coffee, or heavily sweetened mint tea. He pushed through the tour as he left. The amphitheater was at the far edge of the town. A long street ran parallel to its curved wall, with a radius of perpendicular side 48

streets leading back to various districts of the town. He could not remember which he had come down nor which might lead back in the direction of the medina where he wanted to find refreshments. The place was so small it would not matter and he chose one randomly. Almost immediately he was at the edge of the market again. The narrow street ahead was thick with the market day throng. Small trucks heavily laden with crates of fruit and vegetables were trying to make their way down through the crowd toward him. The drivers were proceeding slowly, no doubt used to the difficulty of maneuvering on market day, more difficult for the pedestrian. It was all mad, chaotic, but he found that the sheer exuberance, the purposeful bedlam took him out of himself and his worries about Eddie. The lane narrowed even more. He had to step into a doorway, or squeeze sideways to try to avoid the pickup trucks coming toward him, their backs piled with empty cages, on their way home to the countryside. He was pressed against a wall by several men trying to carry a large wooden crate out of a store. A truck was still advancing at a crawl, showing no intention on stopping. He tried to squeeze flat to avoid it but was shoved out into the street against the front right wheel of the truck. He felt it roll onto the very tip of his shoe, screamed, and pounded on the hood of the truck. It stopped instantly and with a sharp jerk he pulled his shoe loose. The driver was gunning the motor, spewing black fumes into passing faces, and leaning over to wave angrily at him for pounding on his vehicle. The right front wheel had indeed caught the corner of his thick walking shoe and crushed it. If it had been even one millimeter more his toes would have been crushed. People were looking at him. He mumbled something about mon sabot, mon sabot, met with blank stares, only to realize he had used the wrong French word. He felt confused, but glimpsed another side street veering off opposite and pushed his way sideways to try to reach it. He thought it was a dead end, but when he walked a few feet into it realized that it simply turned sharply to the left, the lane so narrow that it only seemed to end, and as he turned the sharp corner he was suddenly in a tiny square. A mosque wall formed one side. On the 49

other the doors of the houses were open but covered by beaded curtains. Cooking smells, or the sounds of radios filtered through, people laughing, the murmur of conversation. He eased himself down onto a ledge along one wall of the mosque under the shade of a broad green leafed fig tree and reached into his bag for the jug of water. A small girl was peaking at him from one of the doorways. When he stared back she retreated, but peeked out again. A universal game. He smiled and waved. She came toward him shyly, glancing back nervously at the door. Four or five perhaps. With a quick glimpse backward she scurried over. “Un stylo, un stylo, un stylo . . . un dinar, un dinar un dinar,” she demanded holding out her hand. A pen, or coins. All the children here demanded the same. He shook his head, but she raised her voice, repeating the same string of words. A boy appeared in the doorway and shouted at her angrily. She grinned and tried one last time as the boy advanced. Maurice said no again and she ran away around a corner toward the market, the boy brandishing a fist at her. He approached Maurice politely. “I’m sorry, Monsieur. We’re trying to teach my sister not to do this with strangers but she’s stubborn and keeps doing it.” “It’s all right. I’m getting used to it.” “It’s not a good thing for her to do.” “No, I suppose not.” “If my father catches her he’ll punish her, so I try to stop her. But she’s stubborn and won’t learn.” “She’s very young.” “Still, she should know better.” “It’s all right. She really wasn’t really bothering me.” The boy was about to turn and leave, but a thought crossed his mind and Maurice said, “May I ask you something?” “Of course.” “All the children here. They all ask for pens.”

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The boy nodded. “Yes. Pens or money. She sees all the others do it.” “Yes, I understand. But why pens?” “Why pens?” “Yes. I mean, why not just money?” “Oh, I see. We need them for school. We have to write with them. But they’re very expensive for us to buy. We sit two together at a desk and if I don’t have a pen or my friend doesn’t have a pen we have to share the same pen in the same lesson. And we also trade them. Like football cards.” “Trade them for what?” “Well . . . some of the boys in my class think they are better than football cards and try to collect as many as they can. You see, if you have three pens you can trade them for someone’s lunch. If you have a great many you can even get a pocket knife or a little radio, or games.” “How many do you have?” The boy glanced anxiously over his shoulder. “I’m not allowed to beg for them. My father would kill me if he caught me doing it. He’s very strict about begging from tourists. He says we should give hospitality without asking for anything in return.” A woman shouted from the doorway and he glanced back. “I have to go now. My mother wants something.” The few minutes rest had refreshed him but he still wanted a cup of coffee and to find the medina. As he passed the boy’s doorway he looked in. The boy was standing by a painted, green wooden table, his mother next to him sewing. In glancing at the door as Maurice paused, she pricked her finger and put it to her mouth. The boy put his arm around her shoulder. The medina was closer than he had expected but when he arrived it was overcrowded with tourists and shoppers and he did not see any free seats at any of the cafés. He wandered several times around the periphery of shops selling household and tourist goods until he caught sight of a couple vacating a table next to an overgrown bougainvillea. He rushed over to take it.

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The table was back from the throngs and shaded by the bright plant. He wanted to reread Eddie’s fax, perhaps even start a letter to him, and was about to retrieve it from his bag when an elderly man hovered over him clearly looking for a place. “Is that seat taken?” the man asked in English. Reluctantly Maurice admitted that it was not. The man was in his late fifties or early sixties with some sort of English accent, perhaps from Australia or New Zealand. His pale yellow short sleeve shirt was buttoned to the neck. He carried an expensive, brown leather shoulder bag, tightly clutched. His face was a brilliant red, his nose and splotches of his forehead were peeling. Maurice buried himself in the guidebook, hoping he would not speak, but he asked, “You visit the coliseum yet?” “Yes.” “I haven’t seen it. I’m here with a tour. I hate tours but this was the one going this morning from my hotel when I got up so I jumped on. You here with a tour?” “No. I came by group taxi.” “I was told they were dirty.” “You have to be careful which one you choose, but they’re fine.” “What did you think of the coliseum? I hear it’s not much.” “I liked it quite a lot.” “You did? I was afraid it would be a waste.” “Not at all. In fact, it’s quite wonderful. I think I even like it more than the one in Rome. There’s more of it preserved.” “Well, the one in Rome has Rome. And this . . .” “You don’t like it much?” “No. I hate the bloody beggars.” “Well, you’re only here a week.” “Yes, a week. Some friends convinced me I should give it a try it instead of going back to my usual spot on the Italian Riviera. I shouldn’t have listened to them.” The man seemed to linger interminably. Maurice tried to bury himself in his Robert Graves novel again, but things he wanted to say to Eddie kept running through his mind: “what a remarkable 52

story about Maxie . . . it has made me miss everyone terribly. . . . Henri certainly exaggerated the story about Guy. I mean, yes, he was very pretty but he had a boyfriend with him and wasn’t after me at all.” He was intending to go back to the coliseum in the afternoon, and he might then have a chance to reread it and write a reply. If he sent it as soon as he got back he might catch Eddie before he went off to see Robert. In any case, he did not want to linger with the man and called the waiter over. Beggars, hawkers, young people playing various musical instruments circled among the tables. The man said, “You leaving here by any chance?” “Well, no. I thought I’d see the amphitheater again before going back.” “If you’re going up to Hammamet in one of those group things I thought maybe I would try it with you.” “Well, no, I’m not going there.” “All right then.” He paid the bill and politely took his leave. Perhaps the panhandlers and hawkers were like swarms of gnats that blinded you, that you had to fight your way through, get clear of, to see what lay beyond. But that boy a few minutes ago had actually apologized for his sister. And Nidhal, after all, had never indicated in any way whatsoever that he wanted anything from him either, whether pens, or money, or food, nothing, that is, except to be taken swimming. Why hadn’t he ever noticed that before about Nidhal? What American preconceptions were getting in his way? Nidhal had made only the simplest of demands, through those awkward swimming motions of his, his language of signs. He had grabbed his hand, eagerly, to pull him along the beach to his secret pool, to share in something. So what was the boy in the square telling him today? And what was Nidhal telling him too? What was this place? This time? What was it really? Wednesday. January 10. 11:00 p.m. I made an arrangement with Nidhal to meet him today at four, and was determined not to be late getting back from El 53

Djem. The coliseum was closed at lunchtime and I wasn’t able to get in again until two. It was still deserted and I’m glad I went back a second time. There’s more than enough to say about it for a sizeable article and several visits. Made a lot of notes for an essay; how the ancient Roman monuments are witnesses to the modern; how the past intermittently breaks through the surface of the present; the symbols of confluence at the intersection of trade routes, the secular versus sacred power tensions apparent in these locations. I’d need to do more research in the archives when back. Could have stayed longer but was afraid I was running late. There were normal taxis around town. They had the advantage of taking me directly back to the hotel. The Tunisian public transportation network seems to work well through its combination of trains, buses, louages, and taxis. As we sped back to Sousse (arriving back with time to spare as it turned out) I wondered if Nidhal would have enjoyed coming along. But that is complicated. When I went down to the meeting place on the beach at a quarter to four he was already there, sitting by the fence, watching people pass. He jumped up when he saw me and ran over. His normal expression is serious and stern, and when he smiles his face is younger. I pointed at my watch and held it out for him to look at, indicating I was early. He nodded vigorously, looking happy. He doesn’t have a wristwatch and might arrive early to overcompensate. The day was quite warm by then. The beach was crowded, but being with him seemed to insulate me from the hawkers because no one approached us as he led the way north again, no doubt back to the same hotel and pool. He took my hand but I felt self-conscious. We were still close to the hotel. Would someone from the conference notice us? Dobbs? He was excited and pulled me along faster. His displeasure and moods seem to change quickly. Is he a simple

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person? Is the thought of swimming in the pool enough for him? He wouldn’t be able to go there on his own. With me he must feel safe. We have devised many ways of asking each other things. For “How are you today?” I point my finger at him and nod yes, shake my head no. Today when I “asked” he shrugged and looked troubled so I cocked my head, raised an eyebrow. He lifted the sleeve of his worn tee-shirt to show me a large bruise near the shoulder, pouted, pretended to fall down. I would have seen it when he swam, so his motives for showing me now were complicated. What had really happened? How could I ever find out the causes and complexities of such things? For a moment I felt him lean against me, again had the sense that he was troubled. The pool was as deserted today as it was yesterday, although the main pool near the hotel was noisy and overcrowded. There’s a similar pool here, for the hotel staff I’ve learned, though Nidhal’s is more secluded, if grander, which is why he might prefer it. I was not prepared to swim and adjusted one of the table umbrellas so that I could sit in the shade out of the hot afternoon sun and still be able to watch him. When he stripped, unselfconsciously, I could not see further bruises. I took my Graves novel out of my pack and was going to try to read when a waiter suddenly appeared through the trellis, a young man in his late twenties, wearing black shoes, socks and trousers, and a white short sleeve shirt that must be the uniform of all the hotels. He was very angry and began shouting at Nidhal in Arabic, who, of course, could not hear what he was saying. He stood up in the water, his hair plastered to his head, hugged himself, shivering, and looked vulnerable. “What’s the problem?” I asked sternly. “He’s with me.” The fellow turned suspiciously. “He’s with you?”

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“Yes. My nephew.” “Your nephew?” He clearly did not believe me. “You’re a guest here?” “Yes.” I lied. “Well, if you’re a guest. . . . But we don’t allow local boys in the pool.” “I know. He’s with me.” “So, do you want to order something?” “No, not now. Perhaps later. Come back in an hour.” I took up my book but when he lingered said more forcefully, “Come back in an hour and I’ll order something then.” Of course he would have asked my room number, to put on the bill, and I would have had to lie again. But he left quietly. No more than five minutes passed, however, when two young boys ran through the trellis shouting and chasing each other, and a woman followed, hollering at them to stop fighting, so another afternoon of the two of us being alone would not repeat itself. The boys stopped the instant they saw us, and the woman too looked surprised and somewhat miffed. One boy was about Nidhal’s age and the other a couple of years younger. The mother was elegant and fit, very tanned. Her thick glasses made her seem intellectual. The boys had become silent and shy and had pressed against their mother but I tried to greet them reassuringly. Nidhal pushed through the water and pointed at them excitedly. He patted the water and gestured for them to come in. They looked at their mother. She nodded approval. They threw their towels on a chair and jumped in. When they surfaced Nidhal went over to them and held out his hand to shake. The woman and I had been watching them carefully. The boys kept trying to say things to Nidhal; and he kept shrugging, so I said to the mother, “He’s a deaf-mute.” “Oh! I’ll tell my sons. . . . Jean Jacques! Marcel!” They looked in surprise at Nidhal but did not seem to mind. In a minute Nidhal was encouraging the younger boy 56

to climb up onto his shoulders, forgetting his bruise, and the pitiful look he had given me earlier. He flipped the boy off into the water. And so they began to play. “How old is your son?” the woman asked. “Oh, he’s not my son. He’s a local boy. His name is Nidhal. I think he’s about the same age as your oldest boy, although he says he’s fifteen.” “My son is twelve, but if you ask him he will tell you he’s thirteen. His birthday is at the end of August.” “Yes. They want to grow up in a rush.” “Are you staying here?” “No, down the beach at the Concorde. Is this a nice hotel?” “Oh yes. I’m here with my sister. She treats us to a vacation every year. My husband and I are teachers. We live in a small village and teach in the same school where the boys go. They hate it. Having both parents who are teachers at their school. Or vice versa.” She laughed. “If my parents had taught in my school I would have died of mortification.” “It isn’t that bad for them.” “I’m sorry I didn’t mean it quite like it sounded.” “You’re American?” “Yes. From New York.” “You speak excellent French.” “For an American you mean? No, I don’t. Not really.” “Are you a teacher?” She nodded toward Nidhal, already seeking a mental explanation. She added, “I teach biology and my husband teaches history.” “I teach university. At Columbia. In New York. It’s in Manhattan.” “Yes, I know. We were there on vacation last year. The boys will want to try their English on you. Are you here alone, on vacation?” “Well, no. I’m one of the speakers at a conference on 57

Roman archaeology. It’s what I teach at Columbia. My new book has just come out in Paris and so I get to come here all-expenses-paid.” “Like my sister does for us,” she said. Was it a sensitive issue? She wanted to know the title of the book because her husband “would want to know about it.” I told her and she seemed impressed. She had hardly taken her eyes off of Nidhal and her sons. They had brought a red ball with them and the three were tossing and chasing it through the water. She said, “They’re getting along well.” “Yes.” “How did you meet him?” “Walking on the beach. I kept running into him. Around my hotel, and along the boardwalk near town.” “I see.” Nidhal was now holding the younger boy so that he could swim around in circles. “My youngest doesn’t swim very well. His older brother is on the swimming team. I suppose it’s like that with brothers.” “One of them excelling at something the other avoids? I think so. My older sister was good in English and languages and I pretended to hate both until I was in university. I think it balances itself out later in life.” “I hope so for their sake.” The boys were beginning to chase each other now, the French boys setting up such a racket that I felt sure that someone would come to investigate. She saw me turn to look back toward the hotel, called them and told them to be quieter. “He’s very good with my sons. Especially the little one. Does he have brothers and sisters?” “I don’t know for sure but I think he must.” Nidhal was now flipping the older boy backward from his 58

joined hands. They were laughing gleefully, the younger boy trying to climb onto Nidhal’s shoulders. “Your sons are very nice. They aren’t being aggressive and they responded immediately to Nidhal even though they can’t even talk to each other.” “Yes.” She laughed. “To tell you the truth I’m just as surprised as you are.” “Your sons seem good-natured and sensitive.” “If you were raising them you would think they were little animals.” But I could see she meant it affectionately. She asked, “Is the boy . . . Nidhal . . . is he very poor?” “I think so. But I haven’t been able to get any information from him about his family. I tried to write some messages in French but he doesn’t seem to read it very well. He does write Arabic. I don’t know any.” “I wonder if he goes to school. Do you think they have special schools here in Sousse or a special class for him?” “I doubt it, really. Maybe in Tunis they might. I’m not even sure he goes to school. He seems free most of the day.” “It’s really good of you to take an interest in him. I would have felt sorry for him, too.” “Feel sorry . . . well, I’m not sure I do, actually. He seems self-sufficient. Except . . . there’s some older boys around him who look pretty rough but I haven’t been able to find out who they are and whether they’re related to him or not.” Quite suddenly the resolution hit me and I added, “I thought I would go into town to see if I see them hanging around. I might be able to question them about Nidhal, or ask people around if they know anything about him or them.” “That sounds like a good idea.” She looked at his clothes. “I’m sure he must be poor and he must need help.” “Yes.” Nidhal was standing in the water with his back to us, and she said, “That’s a bad bruise on his arm.” 59

“Yes, I tried to ask him how he got it but he shrugged it off.” “He’s very thin. I don’t think he’s fifteen either. You can see his ribs. He doesn’t seem malnourished, though, just underfed.” “I agree. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.” I had already told her mine earlier but realized she had not told me hers. I was hoping to change the subject. “Marie. Marie Rose Chomette. It’s a pity you don’t know more about him. Do you think he’s an orphan living on the streets?” “I don’t really know.” “Asking in town is a very good idea.” “I just had a thought. Perhaps your sons can ask him.” “My sons?” “Yes. Children tell each other things they won’t tell adults.” “I suppose. Do you have children of your own?” “No, I don’t have any children. I live with a man.” Eddie might have roared with laughter at this but I was beginning to feel an edge to her voice, a hostility. She said, “But you are good with children . . . ,” and this time I did feel there was sarcasm, or suspicion. The boys were indefatigable. Once they had established roles they did not seem to tire of repeating them: Nidhal, the launch for the older brother; the youngest boy, a whale spouting water. Quite suddenly, the same young waiter who had tried to throw Nidhal out earlier appeared. A half hour had passed. He seemed put out by the fact that I was now with a woman, and that the three boys were all playing together. “May I take your order?” I said to Marie, “I’m rather thirsty. Perhaps you’d like a drink. Coffee? We can order something for the boys too. My treat.” 60

“I think they would like ice cream. But I’ll treat.” “I insist. Shall we ask them?” “No, let’s surprise them.” I ordered coffee for us and ice cream dishes for them. When the waiter had gone I asked, “Do you like this hotel?” “No. Not really. I wouldn’t have chosen it myself but my sister makes all the arrangements and pays the expenses. She sells real estate and makes a lot of money. She’s very fond of the boys and says this is the only chance she really has to know them and keep up with their growth. They love her, too. She’s too good really. Gives them too much. My husband can’t bear it anymore. This year he stayed home. Does your sister have children?” “Yes. Three. I’m afraid I do the same thing with them your sister does with yours. Give them too much. Spoil them. My sister gets angry with me but the kids love it.” “Of course they do! Just like mine.” She laughed. “Is your sister single?” “Her husband died recently. He was a doctor. They never had children.” I took up my novel again, the novel that never seemed to get read. Marie had a home newspaper with her, and we did not speak much until the waiter returned with the order. Another awkward moment ensued. The waiter presented the bill and asked me for my room number and before I could say anything Marie said, “Three fifty three.” I reached in my pocket for a generous tip, but did not argue with her about the payment until he had left. “I should reimburse you.” “Don’t be silly. Besides, the treat is on my sister.” She called the boys and I waved to Nidhal. As the three came out of the pool I saw how thin Nidhal was in comparison to her sons. I felt foolish and guilty that all I had ordered for Nidhal was a dish of ice cream. He was shivering. For him this heat was still a winter temperature, though not 61

for us. I put the large beach towel I had brought around his shoulders and made him sit down on the chair next to me. The younger boy must have taken a liking to him because he sat with Nidhal on the same chair. When they had finished I tapped Nidhal on the shoulder and pointed to my wrist and made departure signs. I thought he might protest, but he did not. Before we left I made Nidhal go and shake everyone’s hand. He nodded to each of them too. Marie asked, “Will you come back tomorrow?” “I’m not sure. I have the day off and want to see more of the town and things. Will you be here again?” “Yes. We come here most every afternoon about the same time when my sister doesn’t force some excursion on us. It’s very nice, don’t you think?” “Yes, it is.” As we left we glanced back. They were watching us so we waved. Nidhal was sorry to leave, or resigned, but he had not protested. It made me a bit sad. I glanced at my watch. It was getting on to six here, but noon in New York so I could still have time to write a quick note and fax Eddie before he left for the doctor, remind him to call me later, after the visit. I turned to Nidhal and pointed to my wristwatch, held up seven fingers and a half, made eating motions for him and me. But he looked upset and shook his head vigorously. I was not sure he had understood and tried to signify dinner together again, but he again shook his head. Where did he have to be? At home? Some job? When we were opposite the hotel here—we had been holding hands again—he continued on his way down the beach and for a moment or two I watched his figure recede. As I turned to walk up the path from the beach I saw Dobbs standing by the open air bar watching us. He waved me over but I shook my head and went inside.

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5 M

aurice had Thursday morning free and set out early to walk into town. His conversation with Marie had hit home. He would try to find out more about Nidhal, perhaps consider taking some responsibilities upon himself for the boy’s immediate welfare: buy him some clothes, and certainly meals. The day was perfect, made for leisurely wandering. Not too hot, little wind, a brilliant blue sky with a sheen of white morning haze. He would make a random search for the boy simply by walking around. His map indicated residential areas in the medina and what seemed like a suburban district just beyond the walls to the south, neither of which he had seen yet. He might run into Nidhal; Sousse proper was not much more than a village. He had also equipped himself with a supply of pens. If schoolchildren of Nidhal’s age pestered him he could trade a pen for information. A deaf-mute boy must be known by everyone. He also wanted to find the goldsmith district, if it truly existed. When he asked the hotel clerk if anyone at the hotel knew its

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exact whereabouts he was met with disbelief. The clerk did not know Sousse that well, he professed, having come directly from the hotel school in Tunis, but he was sure he would have heard of it if it did exist. Nor was the tourist office at the edge of town much help either. They claimed to know nothing about it, though their hesitation made Maurice wonder if they were telling the whole truth. The free map they handed him was quite detailed, but made no mention of a craftsman’s area, nor was there any such guild in Sousse to consult, he was told. He began to wonder where he had either read or heard about it. As he entered the medina, again through the main gate, he was surprised he was not paranoid. If the mad youth were around he was likely to be there, by the fountain in the main medina square. Yet his mood was buoyant. He was confident he could handle a situation should it arise again: confront the youth directly if he started to stalk him again, or preempt it all by approaching him if he saw him first, make a fuss if need be. His confidence returned; and there was a spring to his step.

But his plans did not go well. There were no children in the streets as he walked south, past one end of the closed market; the smell of rank fish thick in the air. He expected hordes of children to be scurrying about, as he had seen the week before in Paris, book bags strapped on their backs, some still outfitted in the gray smocks he remembered from one seminary year in Louvain. The schools must be out of the medina. He should have thought of that. Or perhaps they start classes quite early, or are on vacation. He paused at the corner of a wide street, closed to traffic, that he had not traversed before; it was much wider than the cavernous brick-lined tunnels of the souk where the clothing, pottery, and rug merchants kept shop. Cafés and tourist shops for the most part lined the way. Several coffee shops sold lumps of brown Tunisian molasses sweets made in Kairouan. He had sampled various types and was growing fond of them. A few ounces or so would see him through the day. 64

The street had a gentle incline. At the top was an arch and, beyond, a bus terminal. He had noticed bits of brown dirt caked on Nidhal’s torn running shoes, darker than the sand or girt near the hotels. It had flashed through his mind on one of their walks that the boy might live in one of the small farm houses dotting the countryside he had seen from the airport bus. Nidhal might come into town by bus and the bus station might be a good place to start his search. He wandered slowly up the street. Some boys his age, carrying books, were indeed just getting off a bus, an old rickety contraption. He stopped two of them but they did not know him. A couple of old men he asked also did not know of such a boy, or if they did were not prepared to say. Were his questions making him conspicuous, a suspicious character? He turned to study the wide street now descending before him. His map showed that most of the side streets to left or right led into residential areas, but when he tried one the area was quite deserted and he returned to the pedestrian street again. No, it was not at all going the way he wanted. He should stop, have a coffee, reassess. A number of places sold food from a front window at which you placed your order. Few had tables and those that did were crowded but as he wandered along he noticed a raised stoop. The four-story house in a late nineteenth-century European style might have been grand once, derelict now. Shutters hung from corners. Pediments were missing or peeling. The stoop was out of the sun, out of the lane of tourists. Why not sit there a while? It was a good vantage point to observe things unnoticed, if he were not violating some Muslim rule of hospitality by occupying the entranceway of a house where he did not belong. Well, the worst would be that he would be told to move on. Rather odd things were happening. Young men were running up and down the street but he could not immediately see why. They were not carrying anything and could not have been messengers. Nor were they being chased. Yet they ran at quite a clip, darting in and out among the strollers like the swallows in El Djem among the pillars and fallen blocks. Half of the crowd was tourists, middle aged men and women looking a bit wary and defensive, overweight, 65

wearing clothing that did not make them attractive, shorts that emphasized obesity, that did not hide enough. What did the locals make of it all? No one was there from the conference. A ruckus was brewing. A group of young men were converging at the upper part of the street and were shouting angrily. They had formed a small knot that was oddly moving backward down the street toward him. The youths suddenly parted and from out of it emerged a tall, youthful blond couple, the source of their commotion. Their dress, or undress, was excessive. The young man, in his early twenties, was quite striking; well over six feet tall, his platinum blond hair worn shoulder length; a full crimson beard. He was wearing expensive ergonomic sandals and black leather lederhosen shorts. A knapsack, slung over his shoulders, served as shirt. The girl excited even more reaction. Her tight shorts and brief halter, her long hair and air of disdain, a general arrogance and air of defiance, excited considerable hostility. They held hands and strutted along, as Greek daimon among mere mortals. Shopkeepers and local men along both sides of the road shouted insults in various languages. “Putain . . . slut . . . whores . . . maricon . . . fag . . .” The couple seemed aroused by their effect, their faces flush with excitement, no doubt the effect they wanted. Maurice was delighted when a teenage boy ran out from one of the shops and brandished his fist in the young man’s face. He was screaming and when they did not pay any attention he let them pass and spit on the ground and did a clownish dance to their backs, which must have pleased many people because there was laughter and cheers. The manic energy stirred in the couple’s wake was slow to subside. The Western image of North Africa as a laid back place somnolent and indolent was far from the more electric reality. Those young men began again to run back and forth but he could still not understand why. Women passed with massive wicker baskets on their heads. A shopkeeper wearing a white apron swept out his store. A boy accosted Maurice in English. “You need a guide? Want tour of town? We take you. Twenty dinar each.”

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While he had been caught up in the scene, two boys had seated themselves on some boxes beside him. “No. I don’t need a guide.” The boy turned to his companion and they whispered. “Okay. Fifteen each. You can buy us some eats and drinks. What do you say? You got a cigarette?” “I don’t smoke and I don’t want a guide, but . . .” He shouldn’t brush them off so quickly. They might know Nidhal and how to find him, but dismissed the impulse as opportunistic. The boy speaking grinned at his hesitation, “Okay Mister, okay. Twenty for both of us for two hours. We are the best guides in Sousse. We know all the places to go. We give you the grand tour.” They were scruffy, younger than Nidhal. If he made even a simple request of boys like this he would become entangled in their intrigues. “No. I don’t need a guide.” “Please Mister. Twenty for both is nothing. If you want we can show you the countryside too.” “No!” “Twenty dinar for half a day. That is nothing.” Maurice was about to get up and leave when they were interrupted by shouts. A man in a wheelchair was brandishing his fist and shouting at them. He looked familiar. The boys scurried off. The man wheeled closer. “Thank you. I was beginning to wonder how I was going to get rid of them.” He had already stood up. The man eyed him suspiciously. “They are still watching you. There at the corner.” And indeed they were. If he left immediately they would think he was interested. The man said, “They are not trustworthy those two. If you want a guide there are better ones.” “No. I don’t want a guide. They were just being pests.” Had the man chased the boys away in order to propose his own

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guide? Was Maurice out of the frying pan into the fire? He hesitated, wanting to move on, but wary of being followed. Something about the man’s face signified trust, an expressive face, wearing its emotions openly, anger or amusement, impatience or peace, sharp eyes that were intelligent, mischievous, but direct and honest. The eyes were the clue. Maurice remembered he had seen him praying in the mosque a couple of days before. A silk throw covered his lap, hiding the exact nature of his disability, a square silk cloth was draped over his shoulders. He wore a simple, pale yellow, short-sleeve shirt, his arms hairy and muscular. His face was lined, perhaps from physical suffering, but he was no older than late thirties. The general impression was of strength and fragility, power and vulnerability. Maurice settled down again and said, “Do you live here in the medina?” “Yes. Back behind there.” People were greeting him with deference. He must be more than a familiar on the street. Someone from one of the shops opposite shouted across; the man waved back. What was his role? “You seem to know everyone.” “Yes. I come here everyday. Are you French?” “No. American. From New York. I teach there. I’m here for a conference . . .” He stopped himself. Americans always told people too much. “You like Sousse?” “I’ve only been here since Sunday and I can’t really say I know it. Were you born here?” “In Nefta. In the south. In the desert. But I live here now.” “I’ve read about Nefta. I would like to visit it but I’m not sure I’ll have time, what with the conference. I’d like to see Dougga too.” The man nodded. “You should see the desert. The desert is another world. Not like this.” “Yes, I’d like to. I’ve seen other parts of the Sahara. In southern Morocco for example. It’s very extraordinary. Do you work here then?” The man laughed. “You could say that.” 68

The shopkeeper who had earlier hailed the man came out of his shop, wiping his hands on a white apron. A young girl standing next to him with a tray hurried across the street and offered them two small glasses of mint tea, a plate of molasses sweets, some sweet rolls. She held it for the man first, then Maurice. The shopkeeper waved and went back inside. “Please. Enjoy your refreshments.” Maurice said, “Thank you . . . again. My throat is dry.” The stoop was the perfect vantage point for the continual bustle of the street. The girl set the dish of sweets on the same boxes the boys had been occupying and as she departed she gave the man a reverential bow. “Everyone seems to know you. Are you a teacher?” “I teach the Koran. And Arabic. In the mosque.” They were interrupted again. A man came over and asked him a question. They had a short exchange. Before they could resume their conversation, as if the bystanders had observed the break and were using the opportunity, a man and a woman approached. They seemed to be making an appointment as a pad was produced, something written down and handed to the couple. Was it a remedy, or prayer? Was he an herbal doctor, a healer? A young man stopped to bow and kissed the man’s hand, bowed again and asked something. Two more people did the same, of differing ages. Maurice regretted his inability to understand Arabic but could certainly see that the man had status, certainly not the status of the Sicilian don he had observed in the mountain villages of Sicily, but a status devoid of menace, imposing no fear. The man—he must ask his name—wore no rings or jewelry; his shirt was of simple cotton, although the rug laid over his lap and legs was of very fine silk as was the square shawl on his shoulders, quite old too no doubt, of a fine design, not one of those awful things passed off on tourists. His hair looked as if it had been hacked by a rank amateur. Did he cut it himself in a mirror? There was no pretension about him. People had now begun to give deferential bows to Maurice. He gained something by being seen with him. 69

“I don’t know your name,” Maurice said, giving his own. “Khaled al-Safadi.” “Arab names are very beautiful.” “Maurice. Somehow it does not suit you. It has too much of the serpent, and that is not you. Your name is for you to shed. I think this is what it means.” Maurice laughed. “My mother would die if I changed my name. Especially to something Arabic. What do you think my name should be?” The man shrugged. “Perhaps when we know each other better.” “If you live here I wonder if I might ask you something? I’ve heard there’s a goldsmith district in Sousse but I haven’t been able to find it.” “Yes. There is such a district. Not ten minutes walk. I can draw you a map. But you should be careful there.” “Oh, I know about jewelry. It would be hard to cheat me.” “I can see it would be. But it is not what I meant.” He took the same small pad from the folds of his rug again and drew a little map on the small square of white paper, tore it off and handed it to Maurice. “Here is the map. Let me explain. You have to go down that street, the side street there. Then you must turn to the right and then sharply to the left and follow the alleyway around until you reach the large pottery shop on the corner. You go down this street, to the right, and you are in the district.” Maurice folded the sheet and put it in his shirt pocket. “Thank you. I think I can find it.” Al-Safadi was looking up and down the street. “Those boys are gone now. They wouldn’t have the patience to wait for you.” “No. Why aren’t they in school? Is there a holiday?” “No, but the rules are lax because some boys work on their farms. Some try to get money from the tourists.” Maurice hesitated. He said, “Perhaps I can ask you something else.” “Yes?” 70

“Well. There was a boy. On the beach the other day. A deaf-mute boy. Nidhal. I thought. You seem to know everyone.” “So?” “It’s just that. You see, I’d like to try to help him.” “Help him.” “Yes. Buy him some clothes. You know. He’s very thin. Perhaps his family needs help.” “Help.” “A deaf-mute boy. There must be expenses. Special schools. They might need some help but I haven’t been able to communicate with him too well. I don’t know where he lives.” “No.” “And since you seem to know everyone. He wrote some Arabic words for me. So I thought you might know him, know about him.” “And?” “I’d just like to try to help. Find out where he lives. Meet his family.” “And why? Why do you want to help him?” Maurice said, “I’ve been taking him swimming and, yesterday, I saw bruises on his arm.” “What kind of bruises?” “A large bruise. Here. He said he fell but I don’t think I believe him.” “Why not?” “I think he might be in trouble.” “Trouble?” “Yes. There are these two boys. Youths. I’ve seen them together a few times. I think one of them might have hit him, but I don’t know for sure. At least I saw something strange happen.” “Strange.” “Yes. One of them was shoving him around but I was too late to interfere. They’re pretty rough types. If he’s in trouble maybe we can do something.” “We.” “I don’t know my way here. I don’t want to make things worse for 71

him. Sousse is very small. If you know him maybe we could do something.” “I don’t know you.” “No. Of course not. But if there’s anything you can tell me.” “What you are asking . . .” “Yes?” “It’s difficult.” “Difficult? How so?” “What you’ve said about helping. I’ll have to think about it.” “Think about it.” “Yes.” “Do you mean then that I can come back and see you later? After you’ve had a chance to think about it?” “I am always here on the street. This is my place. My office you might say. But I don’t know if I will have anything more to say.” “Please. I want to reassure you I only want to help. If you have any suggestions. I’ll follow your advice. Whatever you say. I don’t want to make things harder for him.” “It is complicated and I have to think about it.” “Complicated. But how? Maybe you could tell me a little. In the strictest confidence of course.” “No.” “But I can come back?” “I am always here. The street is free.” Al-Safadi turned away. Maurice glanced across the street; an elderly couple was lingering. Maurice said, “Some people are waiting to talk to you. I shouldn’t take any more of your time.” “And you have the goldsmiths to visit.” “Yes.”

The conversation had frustrated and angered Maurice, but as he studied al-Safadi’s map and made his way down the first side street back into the medina proper he felt his mood shifting. Nothing had been promised, but a door had been opened. The man had not said 72

he knew Nidhal, but surely he must? Refolding the map he put it back in his shirt pocket, confidant that he could find the rest of the way to the goldsmith district without consulting it further, his confidence instilling a sense of belonging. He stopped for a moment to check his calendar. It was not yet ten o’clock. He had agreed to meet with that Elaine Mirkin from the bus at one o’clock. His lecture was from two to three with a question period afterward; he would meet Nidhal at four. Having a schedule, being on time, centered him, a habit long ago instilled by the rigors of seminary life, arising at five thirty for Matins, every particle of the waking day meticulously regulated, not a drop of demon chaos allowed to threaten the spirit. In the first years after he had left, Maurice rebelled against schedules, notoriously late for everything. There were several years of unbounded, promiscuous behavior. If he now seemed steady, reliable, and sensible, there was a deeper streak of angry wildness being held in check. The simple act of writing a time and place in his calendar focused him, held chaos at bay, the chaos of inevitable emergencies engendered by Eddie’s illness, crisis meetings at school, the demands of students, and the conflicts of unfinished psychic business. Today he had appointments to keep. It made him feel at home. The side street took him immediately into a poor residential area. The medina was small; yet each segment had its own, self-contained atmosphere as if they were distinct rooms in a rambling, exotic house. There were no tourists wandering here, no tourist traps, no brothels, no crazed youths. A few local shops were scattered among the houses, here a long narrow space crammed full of appliances, shining new televisions and microwave ovens, another doorway exposing what seemed like a veterinary practice. Two men were sitting on crates playing cards, a crate between them their table. Around them in cages were various animals, cats, two or three rabbits, a dog whining. A stainless steel table was pushed against the back wall; two white dressing gowns hung from nails beside it, a large white porcelain sink was in a niche in the left wall. Were they also selling the animals? Treating them? It was still early and there were not many people about, the occasional woman returning from the market, a mother in a doorway 73

watching her two young daughters hurry off late to school. Perpendicular to the end of the alleyway there was an entrance into the covered souks. A flow of people passed by the opening, none entering or exiting. He was drawn inside by the human hum. Which is when he met Dobbs. He had just entered the souks, red vaulted, brick roofs resonating the sound of caged birds, the trapped air permeated with the inviting smell of fresh coffee. He had turned the last corner sketched for him on the little map. In another hundred yards he should see the pottery shop at the corner of the side street, and indeed there it was. He slowed his pace to browse, and as he passed the shop, glanced in and saw Dobbs at the back perusing racks of dishes and bowls. But Dobbs did not see him and he was able to turn the corner unnoticed. Should he go back and ask Dobbs to join him? Go on alone? Ahead he could see a warren of small alleyways, and yes, it seemed, tiny shops. His heart raced. Al-Safadi was right. He had found the goldsmith district. Did he want to go on alone? He might enjoy Dobbs’s company, if he was one to join in the antiquarian hunt. He felt exhilarated. Seeing someone familiar had reinforced the feeling of belonging. He paced back and forth nervously, but then turned and went back to the pottery shop. Dobbs was buying a handsome, blue and white Fez bowl. “Well, well, Dobbs. Fancy meeting you here.” “Well, hello there, Burke. Not on the run from your mad thief manqué, I hope?” “No, thank God. I haven’t seen him this morning but I’ve got my wits about me today. At least I think I do. Am I interrupting?” “No, not at all. As a matter of fact I’m rather glad you happened along. You can give me your opinion on this bowl. It’s for my housekeeper. A real dear. She minds my house when I’m away. Fez ware. Not an antique, of course, but still rather nice don’t you think? A bit awkward but made with care, don’t you think. It’s signed on the bottom R. A. Do you suppose that’s the factory?” “Most likely the initials of the maker. It wouldn’t affect the value

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in any way. It’s well made. Certainly better than average. I’m sure she’ll like it.” “Oh good. Done then. I hate shopping. But I try to bring her something from each of my trips. She keeps them on her mantel. Shows them off to her woman friends when they come over for tea.” Maurice had promised Eddie he would buy something special for Helen. She was always running over at a moment’s notice to drive Eddie to the doctor, pick up his medicines, do the shopping on bad days. Lesbians had the capacity to be heroically generous with their gay friends. But he could not imagine Dobbs’s cleaning woman being lesbian. More likely she was old and dowdy, would “know her place.” Dobbs had not given him many clues to his sexuality but he felt sure that he would not want a threatening woman around, lesbian or otherwise. They began to walk toward the front of the shop. Dobbs asked, “Were you just out window-shopping too?” “Not exactly. I had a tip on the whereabouts of that goldsmith district I mentioned to you. I was just on my way to try to find it. Perhaps you’d like to join me?” “Are you sure? I’m afraid I’d only slow you down. I don’t know anything about that sort of thing.” “Oh I don’t mind. So long as you won’t be bored by my treasure-hunting.” “I’d rather like discovering a new district actually.” “Good, then it’s settled.” Dobbs asked the shopkeeper to gift-wrap the bowl and the man took it to the back of the store. He turned to Maurice, “Is it far to walk? My feet, you know.” “It’s just around the corner actually.” “Is collecting one of your hobbies? I imagine you must find a lot of artifacts and such on your digs.” “I think I would have to call it more of an avocation. I even do a bit of trading. On weekends mostly. It gets me out of myself, out of the teaching routine. Relaxes me.”

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“As a matter of fact, I have a touch of the collector myself. Books mostly, though. I’ve a rather good collection on utopian movements. You find the most extraordinary things still in England. At great house sales and the like. I’ve never been very systematic about it though. Are you a serious collector?” “Well, I don’t know if I would call myself serious. Really it’s something I sort of fell into by accident.” “In the field then?” “Well, actually when I was still in high school. I worked summers for my uncle. He had a jewelry repair shop in Brooklyn, but when customers brought him things to fix he would ask them if they had pieces to sell and he built up a side trade in antique jewelry that way. He’s still at it as a matter of fact. He was a natural teacher. When unusual pieces came in he would simply start talking about them without my even asking.” “So your uncle taught you the trade, then?” “Not exactly. One day a woman brought in an old shoebox full of jewelry. Literally. She had an old shoe box stuffed full of ear rings, bracelets, rings. Costume jewelry for the most part. My uncle called me over and said, ‘Morrie, I want you to take a look in this box and tell the woman how much we can pay her for all of it. I want you to tell her a fair price, not some crook’s price you understand.’” “So what did you say?” “I’ll tell you. He let me rummage around in the box for about a minute. I don’t think it was longer than that. And all of a sudden he clamped the lid back on the box and said, ‘Okay, that’s enough, now tell me how much do you think we should give this woman.’” “And?” “All of a sudden this sum popped into my head. $1,200. Which was a great deal of money at that time. It also worried me because if I said such a high sum I figured the woman would expect it, and if I was wrong my uncle would be hard pressed not to pay it. Of course, I also knew the price was much too high for costume jewelry, but there it was, that’s what I was thinking.” “And you stuck to it?” 76

“I asked my uncle to have one more look but he said no, so I took a deep breath and said ‘I think we should pay her $1,200.’ and my uncle said I should say why and I said because I thought a few pieces were not just paste and glass but were the real thing.” “Were you right?” “Well, yes I was. My uncle spilled the contents out on the counter and went through it all with the woman. But, sure enough, there was a real Georgian brooch, and an American necklace from the 1850s; a few other things like that too.” “And the price was fair?” “Oh, yes. The price was fair and my uncle wrote her a check for that amount. As soon as she left my uncle said, ‘I had you going there, didn’t I?’ So I asked him why he had done it, taken that kind of a risk, and he said, ‘Because I wanted to find out for sure if you had the instinct, Morrie. The instinct.’ Which I did. Lucky for him too.” Dobbs laughed. “The instinct. I see, Burke. I suppose you mean our conversation on the beach the other day.” But the shopkeeper interrupted, with Dobbs’s box, “very neatly wrapped,” as Dobbs said. The goldsmith district was a warren of crowded shops fronting on one long, winding, narrow street. The workshops, making or repairing, had been shunted off into dead-end alleyways branching off centipede-like to left and right. Tables and chairs were set up outside doorways, blocking the way to traffic. A small gray van, such as he had encountered in El Djem, was threatening to back into tables and chairs. The atmosphere was decidedly male, men drinking coffee or tea, smoking, talking animatedly. Few women were about. Some of the shops, with the morning sun shining full on their windows, offered dazzling displays of gold earrings, bracelets, necklaces, watches. In one window alone he counted over a hundred different kinds of bracelets, from simple, elegant gold rings, to crass, stoneencrusted wristbands. The bustle and murmur, the scurry of people moving in and out of shops, elderly men well dressed, delivery boys carrying everything from handwritten notes on slips of paper to large boxes, made Maurice think of the New York garment district, 77

or the antiques mall where he kept his booth every weekend. Some of the shops were small and dingy, one or two had their metal roll curtains pulled down, but most were open, orderly, thriving, display cases cramming every inch. At a glance, most of the objects were not of much interest to him. Either they were new, or, if old, had been regilded or reset badly. The few antique pieces he did see amid all the glitter of new yellow gold were damaged or not particularly rare, common earrings and pins. He paused, however, before one window displaying a handful of necklaces and earrings, each specially lit. Some here were certainly old and of higher quality, if not the highest, and worth inspecting. “Look at those Dobbs. Most of what we’ve been seeing is new or in bad condition, but those are certainly first- or second-century Roman and rather good.” “Are you sure?” “Yes. I think so. I’ll have to inspect them more closely, but they appear genuine.” “There’s quite a bit to see. More than I had expected.” “Yes, more than I had expected too.” Dobbs said, “I thought it would all be gray and dingy. Not quite Schliemann at Troy discovering Priam’s gold, quite by accident as I recall, but interesting.” “He claimed it was by accident but he probably planted the treasure for publicity. He’s been charged with pilfering. But most of the best pieces are in the museum in Athens. Still, there’s a lot of controversy about his exploiting treasures. Not as bad as some of your fellow countrymen though. Evans, for example. Do you mind if we go in?” “Certainly not.” There were two rooms, the front one into which they entered and through an archway a back room. In the back wall of the back room there was another door onto another street so that the shop spanned two streets. A large glass case stood in the center of the floor, doubling as display and counter. In the back area two men were sitting on straight wooden chairs smoking pungent cigarettes 78

and playing a board game that Maurice did not recognize. One man threw the dice and moved a small round ivory piece—not checkers, though, he saw. The man glanced up as they entered, rose, with a last glance back at the table and the position of his pieces, and came forward to greet them. Maurice asked to see a pair of earrings in the window and the man took them out and laid them carefully on a piece of blue felt. They were fourth- or fifth-century. The price was not exorbitantly high, but Maurice detected flaws and touches of modern regilding. “Do you have anything Roman? And earlier?” he asked. “You don’t like these? Name a price.” “These are not quite what I want. I’m really looking for earlier pieces. I’d also prefer something entirely gold, not with stones like this one.” “Let me look for you.” The sun shone across the open back door onto the street behind. The tip of a red geranium blossom was in view, probably hanging from some balcony; a canary was chirping. Perhaps there were more shops there, but perhaps it was a residential district, one not mentioned on the map, the one where Nidhal lived? The shopkeeper returned with several objects, dull or damaged for the most part, but of the period. Maurice said, “I’m not quite sure about these but I’ll think about it and come back later. How late are you open?” “Until one and then again from four or so to eight.” “We’ll be back then. I promise. Do you mind if we go out through the back door?” “That is a private entrance.” “Private?” “Yes, private.” It annoyed him. “What do you mean private. It’s a street.” “Private. Private is private. Can’t you understand.” “Well, can you tell us how to get around to it then?” “Why? There is nothing there. Just houses. No shops. You have to go out the way you came in.” 79

He began to protest but Dobbs pulled his sleeve, and looked uneasy. When they were on the street amidst the hurly-burly again Maurice said angrily, “What do you think that was about? I don’t see why he couldn’t have let us go out the back way.” “Oh, it was probably nothing. Just a whim. You didn’t buy anything from him and made him take those things out.” “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” They wandered further on down the street, hoping to find a left turn running through to the back, residential area. There were a number of short dead-ends, but no connecting street that they could find. Many shops were constructed the same, with two rooms front to back, but Maurice found one that had combined the space into one large room and entered abruptly nearly leaving Dobbs stranded outside. It had been recently renovated. Glass cases with chrome moldings neatly lined the walls. A small, well-dressed, elderly man came to greet them. He pulled at a white mustache. Yes, he had some early North African items. Indeed, he had something special, probably fifth-century, and brought out a small gold ring with an oval gold bezel on which was engraved the line drawing of a fish. The dealer turned it over carefully with a pair of jeweler’s tweezers to reveal the Greek word ICHTHUS hidden inside the band which Maurice knew was not just the word for “fish” but also an anagram for “Jesus Christ, of God, the Son, the Savior.” It was clearly early Christian and the price was already reasonable, but, with Dobbs’s encouragement, he managed to buy it for a fraction of what he would have paid in New York. The shop’s back door was also open, although covered by a beaded curtain. Dobbs was looking at some things in one of the wall cases and Maurice was talking to the man as they went though the motions of paying for and packing the object. He had a clear view of the street behind and was again struck by the intensity of the light, perhaps increased by reflection from the whitewashed houses. The street they had been on was in shadows, but that street seemed luminous and beckoning. 80

The man handed him the small white box and thanked him. Maurice glanced in Dobbs’s direction but he was staring into a glass case, his back to him, so Maurice asked the shopkeeper if he might have a look out the back door. The man shrugged indifferently and he stepped through the curtain, leaving Dobbs inside. Indeed there were no shops. The street was empty and ran on in a straight line for a couple of hundred yards before making an abrupt turn to the left. A few feet beyond there was a bakery. He stood still, expecting Nidhal, or one of the awful brutes, to step out of one of the doorways, perhaps see the black motorbike parked along there. A veiled woman came out of the bakery carrying a loaf of bread but did not look his way. He went back inside and want up to Dobbs. “Ready, Dobbs?” “Oh, I was just waiting for you.” Back out on the main street Dobbs said, “You did very well, you know. But didn’t he say he thought it was fifth-century? It seemed much earlier than that. What do you think? Burke?” “Oh, I’m sorry. I was thinking of something else. What did you say?” “Your ring. Don’t you think it’s earlier? Second- or thirdcentury?” “I doubt if it’s much later than second-century.” “Let’s have a look at it again. If you don’t mind taking it out.” “No. I don’t mind.” They stopped in the street. Dobbs said, “I made a study recently of Carthaginian artifacts. Staying nearby in Sidi and all that. I only had a glimpse but I thought it might be from there.” Maurice unwrapped it and handed it to Dobbs. Dobbs said, “You know, I think you’re right and it might be second-century. And it has some of the qualities of the Carthaginian workshops, the shape of the bezel is slightly rounded, for example. A secret signet ring, I’d say. Probably from one of the clandestine Christian workshops. A real find.” 81

Maurice asked, “Did you see what’s engraved underneath?” Dobbs studied it more closely. “I hadn’t seen that. It’s barely visible. Ichthus, isn’t it?” “Yes. Iota chi theta upsilon sigma. The anagram for Christ.” “Well, I was on the right track then calling it Carthaginian Christian. We might be able to put it even earlier than we think. Chances are that they would have only been wearing such a ring when they themselves would recognize each other through it but others wouldn’t.” “Yes, I agree. The Romans began to catch onto the fish symbol early on. Certainly by the beginning of the second century and they wouldn’t have risked it after a certain date so we can probably trace it rather accurately.” Dobbs said, “I have some reference books home, and I can look it up for you when I get back to Oxford. Send you a letter about it, if you like.” Maurice rewrapped the ring. “I’d appreciate it. I have some references home too. If I find out anything I’ll let you know.” They were nearly at the end of the street, and district. Should he go back through the last shop and wander the other street alone? Did Nidhal really live there? Was the black motorbike hidden in some hallway? He said, “We’re almost at the end of the district here. You know, I wonder if we should go back through that store and find the other street. What do you think Dobbs? Are your feet holding up.” “Please, call me David. My feet are fine. I’d like something to drink but not immediately. The district does seem to peter out here at this corner, anyway.” “Yes. I noticed we’d have to make a left turn to find the back street but the street here turns right and I didn’t notice any left turns at all so I think we have to go back through the shop.” “Really, I’m following you today.” Maurice decided to venture it but when they returned to the shop where he had bought the ring it was closed. He wasn’t sure he had the right place and they wandered back and forth before he 82

admitted that it was indeed closed. He looked at his watch. Eleven thirty. He had to be back to the hotel by one o’clock for his appointment with Mirkin. Maurice said, “Well, he seems to have taken my money and run. How about that drink now. And some lunch. I have to be back to the hotel by one o’clock. I’m speaking this afternoon, you know.” “I know. I was planning to be there. We can share a cab back to the hotel.”

A new wing, consisting of four two-story, square structures with domed roofs diagonally radiating from a central round atrium, was being constructed at the north side of the hotel grounds beyond the gardens. Maurice had walked over to the building site several times to watch. His father was a housing construction worker and had taught him the skills necessary to take the responsibility for the repairs around the apartment and their weekend and summer-house in the Hudson Valley; Eddie did the gardening. Maurice was better at carpentry than plumbing. The physical exercise took him out of himself. Archaeological digs were, after all, construction sites, if you could call kneeling for hours over a square foot patch of earth, working meticulously with trowel and brush, construction. He wandered around the unfinished rooms watching the men paint and plaster. The tile work was impressive, the mortar even, the excess wiped clean. After his first incursion they began to talk to him, although his curiosity and questions made them defensive. Perhaps they thought he was a government inspector, as he had once been accused of being when he nosed around the half-built new church in their small, upstate town. He was trying to feel at home among familiar things. His room was on the eighth floor of the main, high-rise, elongated horseshoe-shaped building. The convex side faced the sea, the concave the front drive, gardens, pools, play areas, and the highway. The room was large, comfortable, and, most important, quiet. The balcony faced the sea and received the morning sun. He had once or twice ordered breakfast to be brought up and had enjoyed it on the 83

balcony in the sun. His expenses had been paid by the conference, and the little extras that he paid for himself made him comfortable. There were several banks of elevators to his floor. The main one was in the lobby but there were others along the long corridors. He generally took the main one, which deposited him in the middle of his floor, with a long walk to his room at the far end of a long hallway that curved enough to prevent him from seeing the end. The red and black check carpet was too gaudy, the lighting too sharp. At regular intervals along the hallway there were fire doors into the stairwells. The landings had large windows, and the stairwell doors and landing windows were sometimes kept open to ventilate the stuffy halls. It was still too early in the season for air-conditioning. Some of the stairwells and landings looked over the seaside but the one closest to his room faced the main entrance and highway and it was this that he was about to walk down now. He needed to stretch his legs after the conference. His talk had been better attended than his first. At the last minute he had posted a notice of a change of topic on the bulletin board. It must have drawn the crowd: “Ancient Roman Sites as Body Politics.” People were very concerned with gender and power these days, and El Djem had struck him as a projection of male ego and power; more than Roman temples, which were to him projections of female bodies, their architecture receding into dark, central, womb-like inner sanctuaries, secure temenos where secret, sacred rites were performed symbolizing rebirth and regeneration. Professor Mirkin had offered the opinion that the male spaces he described were spaces of death, but the female spaces were of life. Her remark won applause. He might develop it all into an essay and was musing it over as he left his room and pushed open the eighth-floor landing door, fixing it open to ventilate the hall. The maids closed the fire doors, although the regulations he was told did not demand it, and he opened them. It was another of his gestures of belonging. He paused on the landing to make some notes and glance at his watch. It was precisely five. His talk had been followed by an

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interminable question-and-answer period, but he was pleased with himself for planning to meet Nidhal at five instead of four. He wore his shorts, though not his bathing trunks. He did not want to swim today and hoped that Marie would not be there. He did not want to cope with her probing, wanted to have a quiet time with the boy, try to communicate to him that there was more to do together than go swimming at the same place and at the same time, but he did not think it would be easy for the boy to understand, or if he did, agree. The boy seemed to enjoy the routine and feel secure with simple, known pleasures. But he could try. Perhaps even convince him to go back into town to see al-Safadi. Signs and gestures that meant wheelchair? Teacher? The large window in the landing was open. He leaned out to look for him. Nidhal was not in the garden below, or by the swings off to the side, and so he continued on down a couple of more flights to another open window. He glanced out again, scanning the main entrance and circular drive. A steady stream of cabs was entering and leaving but he did not see the boy lingering about. It was past five. He should have been there. He leaned out further to look in the other direction and yes, he was there, walking out of the playground area toward the main drive. He was not alone. The fat lout was following him and shouting at him, caught up with him, and grabbed his arm. Nidhal shook it off. Maurice thought of shouting out Nidhal’s name, futile for the boy perhaps, but enough to stop the brute? Nidhal quickened his pace but the youth was more agile than his weight suggested and he managed to grab the boy’s arm and spin him around. Maurice started to run down the stairs. He would not let anything happen to the boy today. At the third floor landing he paused to glance out again. The youth was shaking Nidhal by the arm, brandishing a fist in his face, and trying to drag him toward the highway. He did not see the motorbike but supposed it was parked somewhere on the shoulder of the road. Nidhal was trying to wrest his arm free. The youth tried to force something into Nidhal’s jacket pocket and he tried to take it out and give it back. Thankfully,

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Maurice also noticed that the doorman had seen what was going on and was advancing on the two of them. He ran down the rest of the stairs, but when he got out in front they were not there. He felt frustrated and angry. Where on earth was he? The doorman was walking back toward him and he thought of asking him, but he did not want to engage the hotel staff in the matter. He went down the main drive to check the road. There were two square columns that acted as an entrance gate. He might be waiting there hidden, but he was not. He turned back to the hotel and playground area. A number of children with their parents were around the swings and slide, whiling away time before the dinner hour. He slowed his pace. The youth must have taken Nidhal off on his motorbike back into town. Perhaps he should simply go there, back into the medina to find al-Safadi, perhaps that was the best plan. He had his bag with him, money. To be thorough, however, he should first check the beach. If Nidhal were free of the youth, he might have gone to their usual meeting spot to wait, but no sooner had he started through the garden than he saw Nidhal standing partly hidden in an arbor watching him. The arbor was made of thick wooden poles and was covered in scarlet bougainvillaea. Nidhal was standing to the side, and when Maurice stopped, surprised, the boy raised a finger to his lips. Maurice glanced around. The brute must still be nearby, but he did not see him. Maurice nodded and pointed to the beach and made swimming motions. Nidhal nodded. At the bar on the edge of the beach he ordered two colas and settled on a stool to wait. The boy had looked very upset. His face was gray. If Maurice had not noticed him standing there, would Nidhal have come to meet him? How alone the boy seemed, not just standing there like that in the arbor looking desolate, but in general. This was not the right moment to propose new things, though. He had better go back to the simple swimming plan instead of trying to foist his own plans on him. He saw him finally exit onto the beach a hundred yards or more down and begin to walk north away from him. He paid for the unfinished drinks and hurried after him, but Nidhal

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did not stop to let him catch up until they were nearly halfway to the other hotel. The boy was standing at the water’s edge staring out to sea, as he had been the first time they had met. Maurice slowed his pace, but the boy did not glance around, nor did he raise his head when Maurice approached; he just stared down at the water. The low sun was now behind them, casting their long shadows out over the water. The boy held out his hand and Maurice took it. He moved a few steps backward, pulling Maurice with him, then another step or two. Yes, Maurice could see what the boy was doing. He was aligning his shadow precisely with the water’s edge, so that the surf came up to it but did not wash it, perhaps a variation of the game he had been playing that first day. The sea was calm; the wash, light. A few sails were at the horizon, a few gulls overhead. The sea was still cold, too cold for Maurice to swim in, although there were many people swimming. His sea; his great unifying sea. Nidhal moved a step back again, pulling him along, gauging the waves as if his shadow were something tangible that the sea should not wet. Was that it? Was it something else? He kept Maurice there a long time playing his game before they went on to swim.

As Maurice sat in his room later that night, writing another fax to Eddie, he began to think of the boy. They were late enough to miss the French woman and her children, though he knew they must have been there that afternoon because one of the boy’s sweatshirts was lying on a chair. He had tried to give Nidhal another swimming lesson, but the boy wanted simply to thrash about. A way of venting anger? He tried everything he could to get him to give some indication of what had happened, who the youth was, what he wanted, pointing at his shirt pocket, now clearly empty. But for everything he tried to ask the boy shook his head firmly no. The other days, when he was finished in the pool he had dried himself quickly and put his clothes back on, but today he let Maurice dry his shoulders

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and back, and rub his hair. He had wrapped himself in the towel and sat moodily staring out over the pool until Maurice finally made signs for eating. They had flagged down a cab out on the highway, but he had told the driver Port el Kantaoui a few miles to the north, and Nidhal had looked relieved when he realized the cab was heading away from Sousse. But the day had not ended well. After dinner, as they were coming back into Sousse, Nidhal had made frantic gestures to stop the cab along the corniche well out of town; he did not want Maurice to accompany him. When Maurice pointed to his watch and held up ten fingers, for ten the next morning, the boy shook his head, and when Maurice held up four, he shook his head again. He shook the boy’s hand. They parted without a plan. The room was warm and he pulled the small table nearer the open balcony door. What had Nidhal’s game meant too? A boy that plays games with the sea. The more he began to think about it, the more he was puzzled. And he really should finish his fax to Eddie. He picked it up to reread the two paragraphs he had already written. He must send it before going to bed. “I did not hear anything from you today and suppose you’ve been busy finishing the last section of your book. I know how self-absorbed you get when you’re writing, but we did promise to fax each other at least once a day. . . . My speech this afternoon was a great success and I’ve certainly made an admirer of Elaine Mirkin. Have I mentioned her to you? I don’t think I have. . . . Dobbs was there again and you’ll never guess. He came into the hall wearing a Hawaiian shirt with pineapples on it. I had all I could do not to burst out laughing. Honestly, first there was the African safari look and now this. Yet he has to be the most proper gentleman you’ve ever met. Perhaps it’s his impulsive side expressing itself. Which would be rather nice.” He lay aside his pen. His hand was about to write “Nidhal.” Should he mention him? He hadn’t said anything about the boy yet. Was it anything to write about really? And as the boy flashed through his mind again, so too did the first words of a poem. “For as long as I walk . . .” He had not written a poem for years, but he 88

pushed aside the fax, took a clean sheet of paper, and stayed up most of the night working on it.

shadow game For as long as I walk the beach north, a boy stands at the water’s edge looking out to sea. He wears a green flannel shirt buttoned, because the wind is cold; his hands are not in his pockets. I pass behind him. His face is clear. The waves wash to the edge of his shadow. For as long as I walk the beach south, a boy stands at the water’s edge looking out to sea. Sometimes he takes a step landward, as the tide rises, to keep the waves from his shadow’s edge. I pass before him. His eyes dart deep in word. His face is clear. For as long as I walk the beach north or south, a boy stands at the water’s edge looking out to sea. The minutes pass; an hour yet? No ship’s silhouette; horizon clear. I pass beside him, his face content. The waves wash to the edge of his shadow. He kicks, grins, and pirouettes. His game is done. Sousse, Tunisia, January

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6 A

t the end of the beach road, in front of the medina square, a traffic circle routed the cars in various directions, back toward the main train station, or to the right up a wide divided road to the louage stand, and still further around to the harbor and a small local train station. As soon as his cab had left the corniche, the traffic began to move at a snail’s pace, with much consternation and blaring of horns. Finally, two blocks from the center, Maurice decided to abandon it and walk the rest of the way, but the sidewalks were jammed. He stepped between the cars, now at a noisy standstill, to get a view. Some horrendous accident? A visiting dignitary? He heard chanting and shouts, the screech of speakers turned on too loud. He asked some locals what was happening, but received shrugs or hostile glances. The crowd grew denser the closer he drew to the medina. Police barricades were backing up the traffic, stalling cars and trucks. The plaza in front of the medina gate was jammed with young men shouting and waving banners. He managed to squeeze his way far

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enough forward to get a view. A makeshift platform had been raised and a full-bearded man was speaking angrily into a megaphone. The youths wore strips of green cloth tied around their foreheads. Some of the banners were in English. “Islam is the Answer,” “Islam is the Power,” “Death to the Israeli Occupiers,” “America the Devil.” He had been ignoring the papers for several days. Had something terrible happened in the Middle East, again? Over the roars of the crowd, and the lulls in between, Maurice began to distinguish the shrill sound of more sirens and glanced around for a way out. He was on the far side of the street opposite the square, the stretch lined with tourist restaurants, change shops, and banks. He tried to force his way toward one of the change shops, but the door was locked and the people inside looked frightened and waved him away. The sirens grew louder, the milling of the crowd more confused, pushing him backward and forward as if he were caught in some children’s game turned ominous. He shoved violently and pushed people with both hands and somehow managed to get himself back from the road and onto the steps of a bank, his body wedged against the iron grate pulled down over the door. The police were arriving in force, a fire truck as well. He could not see a way out. People on both sides were trying to push in both directions to flee. Everything was moving very quickly. The police were pouring out of vans and cars, waving batons and rushing into the crowd, seizing demonstrators and creating bedlam. Cries of pain and fear replaced protest chants. The police were forging a path in his direction and he realized he could very well be arrested. Panic gripped him but he kept his wits. A gap opened in the scattering crowd. Twenty or thirty yards beyond there was a side street. He launched off the step into the throng and managed to beat his way to the street. He ran halfway down it before looking back. The alleyway was eerily deserted and silent. It led directly onto the beach, and suddenly was out on the sand. The silence brought him up short. There was not the slightest sound from the riot, only the light wash of the surf. The buildings must be blocking the noise. He had a

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clear view in both directions, the regular assortment of tourists, of families strolling, of local vendors and hustlers, as if nothing were happening in town, the world diametrically divided. He looked at the time. Twelve thirty. He had gone to bed late, to write and finish Eddie’s fax, but his afternoon was free. What should he do next? His plan had been to stroll along the shopping street again and casually see if al-Safadi were there today, but if the ruckus had spilled over into the medina, and with local tensions so high, it might not be a good idea for a foreigner to be wandering around. As far as he could see in the direction of his hotel, everything appeared normal and quiet. But if he went south and circled around into the medina it could be dangerous. What would Dobbs say: Trust your instincts? What were they telling him? It was difficult to judge realities here, not just out on the street today, but in North Africa in general. If he proceeded cautiously, judging as he went, he should be all right. And so he turned south, following the beach until he was sure he had cleared the town, but within a few hundred yards his way was blocked by docks, warehouses, and a railroad siding and he was forced back onto the road again. The highway was in chaos; bumper-to-bumper cars moving at a crawl. One of the old trucks had stalled and was being pushed up onto the sandy strip that served as sidewalk. The police must have a roadblock at this end of town as well, although he couldn’t see it. A police car lumbered toward him along the shoulder but did not stop to question him. He wove his way between the vehicles, and was glad to get off the road and in among houses. He was being foolish, wandering around like this. There could be little hope of finding al-Safadi today. Yet when he passed through one of the southern gates all was quiet again. Did anyone know that something was happening on the other side of the walls? It reminded him of his yearly Ignatian retreat. The news was denied them for a month. He felt as if he had to readjust to the world’s bedlam when he went out to face it again. He paused at the top of the pedestrian street. It was actually crowded with tourists. As if someone were perpetrating a subtle 92

joke, the same Japanese group that had made him flee the amphitheater in El Djem was chattering away among the shops. When you are a tourist you are a tourist. When you are a Tunisian you are a Tunisian. You are the thing you are. Each has its own reality. He felt a rush of anticipation. Everything was so ordinary here that he felt sure he would find al-Safadi at his usual spot. But as he slackened his pace, not wanting to appear eager, he saw that he was not there and his spirits sank. What should he do? Which way should he go? Leave the medina and wend his way back to the hotel? But the highway must still be a mess. He proceeded a few steps further. Al-Safadi was there, hidden behind the same stack of empty crates. Maurice approached him. “I didn’t expect to find you here. Because of the demonstration.” “You shouldn’t be wandering around. It isn’t safe.” Today a simple blue blanket covered his lap. “I know. The main square and streets are bedlam so I came around by one of the south gates. It was quiet there. Do you know what it’s all about?” Al-Safadi said disdainfully, “Harakat al-Nahda. The Renaissance Movement. . . . But you look upset. You should sit. Really, you should have gone back to your hotel.” “I know I should, but it’s just that . . . well, I don’t have many days left here.” “Your conference is almost over?” “Yes. It ends on Sunday.” He took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. It was not unduly warm but he was sweating profusely. “You look very pale. I’ll ask them to bring a chair for you.” “No. Really. I’m fine. I just needed to sit quietly a moment. I think the riot must have upset me more than I thought. I saw antiAmerican banners. What were they protesting? You don’t seem to like them.” “Like. . . . They’re Islamic Nationalists. You would call them Fundamentalists but that isn’t precise. They say they want an Islamic politics, and our government is too Western for them. So of course it feels threatened and has banned them.” 93

“The police were being brutal.” “They have institutionalized violence here. To preserve the public order, they say. To justify it.” “I saw things like that during the Columbia strike. In my student years in the sixties. The police were savage then.” Al-Safadi was glancing up and down the street, as if taking its mood. “I’d like to hear more about what you saw today, but we shouldn’t stay here. We can go to my house. It’s not far. You will be my guest.” “That would be a good idea. I’m feeling a bit queasy.” “Good. I can have the daughter of the café owner across the way come and make tea. Something for us to eat.” Al-Safadi waved to the café owner and he came across the street. After the man left, alSafadi said, “She’ll come in a few minutes. You can push me if you like.” “Certainly.” Al-Safadi gave instructions as they went down one of the side streets and into another. Maurice had the distinct impression that alSafadi had deliberately asked him to push him, to show the people in the neighborhood that they were on friendly terms, or that Maurice had his protection. At least, people waved or nodded amicably.

Al-Safadi’s house was in a residential district behind the tourist street, not more than ten minutes walk. The atmosphere was livelier than the morning Maurice had first wandered there. Children were playing ball; washing was strung across the street between upstairs windows. It reminded him of Naples, with the same Neapolitan atmosphere of buildings never gentrified. Doors were open, the interior sounds mixed with the exterior, but not as in the monstrous complexes of New York high-rise tenement blocks—desolate places, wind-swept, lives walled off from one another. The architecture was simple and unadorned, square whitewashed buildings enlivened here and there with moldings of carved dark wood. Some houses might have hidden affluence, their doors of carved teak or heavy oak, their exterior walls repaired if not painted. 94

Al-Safadi’s building stood on a corner, identifiable by a faded École Normale sign. The building was no longer being used as a school. A new one had been built outside the medina. The tiled, marbled entranceway was wide and cool. A wide stairwell spiraled up two flights. A long corridor led to an open courtyard around which were several doorways. Maurice wheeled the chair down the corridor, across the courtyard to a closed door painted a peeling blue. The whole structure stood apart from the surrounding building, and perhaps had been built earlier, the old school building constructed around it. The upper half of the walls consisted of wooden shutters that could be lifted open for ventilation and propped up by simple bamboo poles. The front room was larger than it appeared from the outside. An archway broke the far wall, a hallway beyond. The tiled floor was covered with Oriental carpets of various designs and age. A kitchen and bedroom-study were visible through adjoining doors. A closed door, he supposed, hid a bathroom. He helped al-Safadi out of the chair onto a low divan, propping pillows behind him. His pant legs were empty below the knees. He asked for a silk throw, hanging over a chair. Interiors interested Maurice, and al-Safadi seemed at home here. A nineteenth-century teak bookcase against one wall brimmed with books, some in various Western languages but most in Arabic; books were also piled on a low, hammered metal table and on the floor and in high stacks against one wall. There was a large blackboard on a wooden stand, Arabic words written on it in chalk. The walls were bare of paintings, hangings, or shelves. Some of the objects scattered around, a scimitar in a sheath, an Izmir vase, were obviously valuable, as were the various rugs, throws, and shawls. Perhaps they were gifts. He did not display them in any special way in order to draw attention to them. Most people used objects to impress others and rarely were they simply there for the sake of themselves. Once, with his uncle, he had gone to visit a wealthy collector at his Sutton Place home. A decorator’s hand had obviously been at work. The art was impressive. A first-rate Sisley was hanging over the white sofa. A Dégas bronze of a nude in a bath graced an eighteenth-century table in the 95

hallway. But when his uncle had asked if he could smoke, he was handed a Coney Island ash-tray. And, in the study, where the man hid his jewelry collection, hanging on the wall next to an early Picasso was a painting on silk of a tiger such as you bought at the cheap Chinatown tourist shops. And these, Maurice had realized, reflected the true taste of the man. In al-Safadi’s home there were no such anomalies. Nothing gave away a contradiction between himself and his objects, living among them without possessing them. Al-Safadi said, “Bring your chair closer. The girl will be here shortly and then we’ll have tea and something to eat. If you prefer you can sit on cushions.” “No. I’m not used to sitting that way, I’m afraid.” As al-Safadi was making himself comfortable among his pillows, twinges of pain crossed his face. Maurice said, “This is a very nice house. Is it old?” “Probably mid-nineteenth-century. The French built the school around it.” “How odd. Why didn’t they just tear it down?” “There was a controversy. Some think it was one of the homes of one of our local prophets, Sidi Amor Abadda, but this has never been proven. Of course, some people did want to tear it down. The property is valuable and they could sell the wooden panels there on the windows, which are rare and very fine. It might also have been a merchant’s home and not the home of the saint. Have you been to Kairouan? Sidi Amor’s shrine is there. It is a good thing to visit.” “I’m afraid I haven’t seen it. I’ve only had time to visit El Djem so far. To see the amphitheater. The Romans left quite a few important sites here for such a small country.” “Yes. But there are important Muslim shrines, too. Kairouan is our fourth sacred city. It is a simple place, but there is a certain presence there.” “Yes, I’ve read about it.” Al-Safadi was glancing past Maurice and he turned to see the girl from the café standing shyly in the doorway. She bore a heavy metal tray covered with a white cloth and set it down on the metal table, 96

dramatically whisking off the cloth to reveal dishes of meat pastries and date cakes, and a pot of tea. She brought cups from the kitchen, and poured for them, covering her face with her veil. Al-Safadi said something to her when she had served the cups and she nodded and left. Al-Safadi said, “You still look pale. Please, have as much as you want. They are mostly for you. Pull the table closer to yourself if you want.” “That won’t be necessary.” Al-Safadi studied him as he rose to offer the dish of pastries and before Maurice could return to his chair al-Safadi said, “You’ve come back, of course, because of the boy.” “Yes.” “You want to know if there’s anything I have to tell you today.” “Yes.” “Of course, I’ve asked about you.” Maurice nodded. “I thought you might.” “You gave the main address at the conference and are well respected. And you take a spiritual attitude toward your work. Toward archaeology too.” Maurice could not imagine any of the hotel staff making that comment about him or his work. But who? He replied, “Well, yes, I think I do.” “You’ve published several books, and they too are well regarded.” “Yes. You seem to have been told a lot.” Al-Safadi nodded. “Of course I asked Nidhal, too. He is a boy of many secrets you know.” “Yes. I certainly had that impression. Did he tell you anything?” It was odd to use such words as “say” or “tell” about Nidhal, but what else was there? And he let it pass. Al-Safadi said, “Oh yes, he said you were kind to him and made no demands. I expected as much but he surprised me. He also said he feels peaceful when he’s with you. He seems to trust you.” “Did he say that? Peaceful? I like that. I wasn’t sure I was making any impression at all.” 97

“Yes, you’ve made an impression. He’s a good judge of people for someone his age. But his age also make him vulnerable. Makes it difficult for him to act on his judgments.” “Yes. You’ve known him long?” “Oh yes. Since he was small. . . . Oh, I see. You think I’ve been dishonest, not letting on I know him. Of course I had to ask about you first.” “Of course. I wasn’t thinking you were dishonest. Cautious perhaps.” “Cautious. I don’t think that’s accurate. It’s just that you said you want to help him.” “Yes.” “And it presents complications.” “Did you mention this to Nidhal? That I want to help him? With schooling. Clothes.” “Yes. He wasn’t very pleased about this. I don’t think he wants your help. At least not more than what you are doing now for him.” “But I’m doing nothing.” “You took him swimming. You bought him meals. And swim trunks. A shirt.” “Yes, but that’s not what I meant, really. He seems to be in some sort of trouble with those older types I see him with. I tried to get him to tell me something about them, but it only upsets him. Whatever it is, it looks like he’s in danger. I think that one of them—he’s tall and fat—I think I saw him hitting Nidhal one day but I wasn’t close enough to be sure. I mean, Nidhal is certainly intelligent, and I’d like to see he has the right schooling. But it was more than that. He seems too independent for someone his age. Alone even. I don’t just mean his handicap. I get the feeling that he sees himself as alone in the world.” “So you feel sorry for him?” “No. Not exactly. I mean, of course I do, but that’s not the main reason I want to help him. He should be given opportunities.” “Opportunities. It’s very American.” “Yes. I suppose it is. But is that wrong?” 98

“Not wrong. But perhaps, for Nidhal, it is unrealistic.” “Unrealistic? Why? After all, that’s why I’ve asked you to help in the first place. I certainly don’t want to make anything worse for him. I feel I was lucky meeting you.” “Inshallah? It was not the will of God?” Maurice laughed, “Oh, I’ve no idea. It’s just that, you seem to know everyone and I know nothing about him? Yes, we meet every day on the beach to go swimming, but I don’t know anything about him. How to find him if I want to take him somewhere, send him a message, meet his family.” “As I have said, it is complicated. And there is also what he wants. But I’ve sent for him.” “You sent for him!” “Yes. I sent the girl for him.” “Good.” “He should be here in a few minutes.” “Did you tell her to tell him I was here?” “Yes. . . . Please pour yourself some more tea. For both of us. Have something more to eat. You’re looking better.” Was he being sarcastic, or ironic? But he seemed only to be direct. Maurice had the impulse to look at his watch, to measure the time until Nidhal’s arrival, but he resisted, and changed the subject. He said, “This building was a school, you said?” “Yes. But the government built a new one and the building is apartments now.” “Does Nidhal go to the new school?” “No. He goes to the Koranic school in the main mosque, what we call a madrassa or religious school. I teach him Arabic, too. Sometimes here. Sometimes in the mosque. He’s very bright, as you have observed.” “He wrote some Arabic for me and even made a bird out of the letters. But his written French doesn’t seem very good.” “He knows French sign-language, but he likes to write Arabic and is learning woodworking. He has a gift for it, too. Maybe it will be his craft. For the future.” 99

The sounds of sandals on the stone floor of the courtyard made Maurice turn again. Nidhal entered. Maurice hardly recognized him. He was wearing a long, light brown tunic that draped to his bare ankles. There were no buttons and it was open at the throat. On his head he wore a white lace skullcap. He removed his sandals at the door and came and bowed to al-Safadi, who touched his head. He held out his hand to Maurice and grinned. He was androgynous in his robe; delicate, but alert and nervous, like a fawn. Al-Safadi said, “He keeps some of his woodworking here, for safety. I’ll tell him to bring some things to show you.” He made signs and Nidhal nodded and went into another room, returning with a small rectangular box veneered with walnut burl and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. “Did he make this? It’s very good.” “Yes.” Signs passed between Nidhal and al-Safadi, and al-Safadi said, “He wants you to have it.” “Oh no, I couldn’t really. Besides, he made it for you.” “You must take it or he will be offended. I just keep his things here so they will not be stolen or lost. It will make him happy, you know.” “If you’re sure.” “Yes, I’m sure.” Nidhal was holding it out, glancing between them. Maurice turned it over several times in his hands. The brass clasp and hinges, the joints and inlay were all meticulously done. The boy must have taken great pains to get it right. Maurice had seen a gesture used that he now tried to imitate, touching his heart and offering his upright palm. The boy looked very pleased. This Nidhal was different from the Nidhal he took swimming because there were many Nidhals and each with many sides. Maurice said, “It’s beautiful. He has real talent.” “I’m trying to encourage him. He’s not lazy, but he can get lost in his world of daydreams so this woodworking is good because it focuses him.” “Doesn’t he go to the government school at all?” 100

“No. Just to the Koranic school. They only teach him scripture and Islamic history but it is a better school for him in a many ways. There are not many students and they pay attention to him. The big school is overcrowded and they ignored him. The government is not happy that he is not in the normal school. There are many tensions here between religion and the government. Not just the one you saw today.” “And his mother and father? Are they both alive?” “They live in a new district. To the east of town. But I don’t think he will want me to be answering these things or you to be asking.” Al-Safadi signed some things to Nidhal and indeed he grew angry. “And the two bad types I’ve seen with him? Are they relatives? Will he say something about them?” “They’re a bad lot. The fat one is his cousin, the son of his father’s brother. They use him, I’m afraid, and give him money to be a messenger; so he goes around with them.” “A messenger? For what? You mean drugs?” But Nidhal seemed to understand what they were discussing. He stood up angrily and seemed about to leave. Al-Safadi said, “We’ve upset him. And you must not get involved with this. There are things about Nidhal you should not get involved in.” Al-Safadi made signs to Nidhal who immediately shook his head. “You see. He does not want me to talk about it with you and he will not tell you himself, I think.” “But why? If it’s drugs . . . if there’s trouble at home and they need money I can help.” “We should stop. This is complicated.” “Will you at least think about it?” “Yes. I will think about it. But even for me to help him is complicated. His father and his father’s brother are proud and resent outside help. There are bad things in that family.” “What do you mean bad things? If it’s drugs you can tell him we have much worse in New York, I’m sure.” “Really it is better if you don’t know too much, and perhaps don’t help too much. It is one thing for Nidhal to take walks with you and 101

for you to take him swimming. Even to buy him some food, or to give him some spending money. These things they must know and do not mind. But it is another thing to go further, and perhaps you should not ask. I will have to think about it. Ask advice.” “Ask advice? Of whom?” “You will have to be patient and give me time.” Maurice felt as if he were being led around and around a deepening circle. He glanced at the boy. His head was down and he was beginning to look depressed. Maurice said, “I think we should not upset him more. I hope he knows I just want to help.” “He understands this.” Nidhal glanced between them, frowned angrily, and made swimming motions. Maurice nodded. “All right then, I’ll take him swimming and leave it at that for now. I trust your judgment.” “Yes. It’s best if we leave it at that for now.” “Perhaps we should go now.” “Yes. But you should go the back ways until you are clear of town. You will have to walk.” “I don’t mind.” “I’ll tell him to take you through the back streets.” “May I return to talk to you again?” “I am at the same place in the medina most days.” “And tomorrow?” “Tomorrow? Saturday? No. I will be gone from Sousse for a day or two.” “And Sunday?” “Sunday. I’m not sure.” He looked annoyed and added, “You can try Sunday if you want but Monday—I’m sure I’ll be here again on Monday.” Maurice did not quite know what to say. The conference was over the next day, on Saturday, and he was scheduled to leave Sunday from Tunis airport for his return flight to Paris. Henri was expecting him. His flight to New York was Wednesday. His classes 102

began again the following week. He felt confused, and as they set out through the medina to one of the far gates he dropped a pace or two behind Nidhal. How could he leave now? Yet how could he stay?

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aturday. January 11. 4:00 a.m. Restless sleep. Tossing and turning for hours. Finally rose and tried to write down my dreams. The ring I bought came to life and multiplied itself into a mandala of six, long intertwined fish. But the oddity was that they were all swallowing each other’s tails, as in the uroboros symbol. At the center of the mandala there was a golden fish and each of them intertwined it. I was bathed in sweat and full of energy. I tried to go back to sleep, only to awaken abruptly from another dream. A boy resembling Nidhal floated toward me but kept going, merging into me. I was wet, from a wet dream, when I awakened and got up to change. This hasn’t happened to me since I was fifteen. There is no chance of going back to sleep now. I feel unsettled, restless, filled with a strange sharp energy. I went out onto the balcony to see if the night air would calm me down. The balcony overlooks the gardens and pool. The night lights are on. The pool water shimmers like lit plastic. The sea is hidden from view 104

behind high bushes although I can smell salt on the wind. I thought of going for a walk, but I did not feel drawn down there, so I’ve called for room service, treating this as my normal rising time, today’s Matins, falling again into old habits that might discipline the restlessness and confusion, perhaps. My final speech is at ten o’clock; my seminar this afternoon at two; the closing conference banquet this evening at seven. My flight is tomorrow at one. That is my schedule. My schedule for my last full day here. A day and a half left. Do I really want to face Paris on Sunday? Henri’s again? The chit-chat and banter, the clever ideas, flirtations, and sexual innuendo? But if I do not go to Paris on Sunday can I simply pass through on my way back to New York on Wednesday? Henri would be furious. Not to mention Eddie. Do I want to leave tomorrow? I know why I’m upset and confused. When al-Safadi mentioned I could find him in the medina again on Monday, he seemed to be expecting me. That is, I felt he knew I would come, knew for sure I would be there, as if I had already decided to be there, or it had been decided for me. Inshallah? Surely he was pulling my leg a bit when he said that? Being a bit playful? Wasn’t he just telling me his schedule? I have no idea what he expects of me, if he expects anything. Was my feeling that he knew I would come merely my own realization that I would stay? Has he become a mirror to my wishes? Or, does he objectively know? I have no idea, but all of it has disturbed me. Of course, I tell myself that I am not rationalizing, that I really would like to see Dougga, Kairouan, and Nefta, need at least a few more days. But that is not it. Or that I need to have a few extra days here to sort out the questions around Nidhal. But talking to al-Safadi has made me see that helping him could make things more complicated, even 105

worse for him, that Nidhal’s diffidence and distance, his many silences and reticencies, are as much part of his reality as his disability. I could tell myself that if I had a few extra days I could find the ways and means to help him, but perhaps I will make things worse. What can I really do in these circumstances? What should I do? Be patient? Give al-Safadi more time, as if there were an unlimited amount of it to dispense as generously as one wished? I have always hated the idea of unfinished business, always been spurred on by the belief that things must be completed, that stories, or events and experiences, must be brought to conclusions. I have never been any good at walking away from something, at deciding that when I say something is at an end that it is at an end, that the end of something is not separate from my seeing it through to the end. Perhaps I am afraid, afraid that any unfinished business will only condemn me to repeat a personal history, complete an experience somewhere, sometime, again, or again and again and again until the business is not just completed but completed correctly, brought fully into the light of consciousness in some complete form. So perhaps it is that a momentum has built for me here behind my stay, as if I were being propelled along through some horizontal plane from point to point, across a lake, for example, the lake where I spent my childhood and across which I would set sail in our skiff, in pursuit of adventures and secret encounters, which never happened. But if the things I said to al-Safadi about wanting to help Nidhal are sincere, then how can I return to Paris tomorrow? Did I really mean what I said? Am I an honest and sincere person? Or am I living a delusion, the delusion that a wealthy American, a non-Muslim outsider, can do any good in the first place? Is it all ego and hubris and imperialistic self-deception based on only the most superficial of understanding. Rule one of archaeology? Of all those 106

cultural anthropological courses I took over all those years. Never impose your values. Do I have some vestige of the Jesuit missionary left in me? God forbid! Are my motives so innocent and pure? As Nidhal and I were walking down the beach to go swimming, and when we were abreast the hotel here, he suddenly joined his hands and put them to his head as if resting or sleeping, pointed to himself, to me, to the hotel, and made the motion again. Did he want to sleep with me? Literally? Suggestively? We were opposite the gardens and he pointed again to the hotel, but I shook my head. He made signs that with some difficulty I understood meant my room, and I pointed to the high-rise building behind the main garden and pool. He nodded. Did I want to take him back to my room? I shook my head no, but what did I really want? Something about him has gotten “under my skin.” His vulnerability, and androgyny, the simple pleasure he takes in swimming, of demanding nothing, of accepting anything I give him with a nod, a meal for example, ice cream, his deference to my parenting role. And the wet dreams of a boy in the middle of the night. The boy in me. Perhaps these questions about staying were triggered by something Marie said. Perhaps she put all of this into my head. What will you do next for him? she said. And then I began to try to think of ways to do something more, so her question has triggered some unconscious process. Later. 4:45 a.m. Room service interrupted me with breakfast. The luxury of a five-star hotel: everything available all the time, to gratify one of modern life’s fantasies. I could not possibly go back to sleep. I realized that if I were to stay longer I would have to phone Eddie. It was only 10:45 New York time. He would still be up, but I was not at all sure what I would say. He answered on the first ring. Helen had been there for dinner, but had left early to correct papers. They had been 107

talking about me, of course, but he had not expected me to phone in the middle of my night. Was anything wrong? Indeed, was there? Which phone was he on? The bedroom? The queen-sized, four-poster bed, the American quilt, the night stand with its array of pills, the black and white photograph of us Henri had taken; the Platt Lynes Greek myth photograph on the wall above, bought with the profits from Eddie’s translations. The curtains were pale blue, the lamp on the night stand had a blue shade. Blue made us both feel peaceful. The room was large enough to hold a nineteenth-century mahogany sofa with embroidered fabric. It was a comfortable, affluent room. It had been a very cold day there, he said. The bedroom radiator was less than adequate. He would have the quilt pulled up around his neck. If I were there I would not let things get messy. His dirty clothes would now be scattered on the floor the chair and sofa, at the foot of the bed, in corners. The room would smell moldy, stale. “Is the room a mess?” I ask, clutching at the memory of familiar smells. “What do you think?” “The cyclone effect? Wizard of Oz?” I ask. I am writing this down as I remember it. He must have been on the cordless phone. There was a whoosh and static as he passed from room to room. “Where are you going?” “To the kitchen. I’m famished.” “That’s a good sign. Was Maxie waiting by the phone before I called.” “No, they’re both sleeping. Helen had them out in the park earlier for a run, so they’re pretty exhausted. I made her dinner.” “How is she today? I saw something in the market I thought she’d like. A Fez vase, simple but elegant. Blue and white, of course” “Her colors. She should like it.” “I saw it while I was shopping with that queen from Oxford. Dobbs.” “Are you making friends? What’s he like?” 108

“Friends? I don’t know about that. He doesn’t talk about himself much.” “The English thing, you mean?” We often joked, or complained, about European, especially English, reticence. Were they repressed or merely private? Our old debate. Was he deflecting the attention onto me when he asked, “You seem a bit strained? What time is it there anyway? You’re up late. Or early.” “Four forty-five. I’ve just had breakfast.” “Four forty-five! Oh my God, you’re reverting to that Catholic thing again. Something must be wrong.” “Well . . . I was worried when I didn’t get a fax from you. You were supposed to get the test results this afternoon, weren’t you?” It was so easy to make him feel guilty. I could hear it in his voice. It raised a notch. “I was just waiting for Helen to leave before faxing you. That’s all. Besides, you know no news is good news. I wouldn’t break our rule and not tell you if it was bad.” “So what did the tests say?” “They were all negative.” “But what about the fevers last week?” “Robert says it just a little low-grade virus or a touch of anemia. Probably flu, though. He said it isn’t that severe, but that I could make do with some vitamin injections.” “Anemia? Vitamin injections? Jesus, Eddie. Why didn’t you tell me.” “He didn’t make much of it.” “How many injections exactly? Are you telling me the whole truth?” “Of course I am. I didn’t ask how many. I suppose until it’s cleared up. Robert says it’s nothing to be alarmed about. He’s going to monitor it and I have to go back next week for another blood test. It really isn’t that big a deal.” “You sure you’re not hiding anything from me? I mean, I 109

can fly straight home Sunday if you want. There are planes from here to Paris several times a day if need be and the same with connections to New York from Paris. I checked the schedules before I left.” “I know you did, dear. We talked about it before you left. But honestly I’m fine. Are you? You’re sounding overly anxious. You’re sure there’s not something wrong?” “No. The conference has been more of a strain than I expected. That’s all. I had hoped to get some free time.” “You needed a break.” “I know.” “What are you doing tomorrow? I guess for you it’s already today.” “My final lecture is this morning. I have a seminar this afternoon.” “And you’re still going to Paris Sunday aren’t you?” “Yes. Why?” “Henri was counting on seeing you again. I spoke to him today. He’s planning some sort of dinner thing for you Sunday. He says that boy—what’s his name—Guy—is dying to meet you again. Seems you made quite an impression.” “I really wish he wouldn’t. I was just hoping he and I could dine alone somewhere simple. Have a quiet evening.” “Henri? Are you mad? You know how he is.” “I have half a mind to come straight home tomorrow instead of stopping over in Paris. I’m sure I could change my flights. Besides, this anemia thing has me worried.” “God! Henri would be furious with you if you missed his dinner. He’s going through an awful lot of trouble for you, you know.” “Don’t you want me back?” “Of course I’d love to have you back early. That’s not the point, but you’re just making too much of this anemia thing. Your Mother Teresa complex showing again, dear. I hate it when you infantilize me.” 110

“You know that’s not what I meant.” “You’ll enjoy Henri’s party. You always do in the end. Besides, you’re due back Wednesday and it isn’t that far off. When is the conference officially over?” “This evening. I’m just feeling pressured, I guess. After all, I have a class right away on Thursday and the last time I did that I was so jet-lagged I hardly knew what I was saying. I haven’t even had time to see some of the most important sites either, like Dougga.” “Well, maybe you should stay there a few extra days to unwind.” “But Henri.” “Don’t go for my sake.” “Yes, but you know you’ll never hear the end of it.” “Not if you call and explain it all to him.” “Oh come now, he’s not that reasonable.” “Honestly Morrie, you can’t let Henri emotionally blackmail you into doing something you don’t want to do. I know he’s good at it, but you’ve seen through him in the past.” “I suppose I have.” “Well then? What’s the problem? Your tickets are changeable. You booked business class to Paris and Tunis didn’t you? If you want I’ll call Henri for you.” “No, no. I’ll call him myself.” “I suppose you’re saying it’s settled then?” “Well, yes, I guess it is.” “I wish you’d just come out and say so.” “I don’t want to jeopardize your working relationship with Henri, or have him take it out on you.” “I doubt he will if you call and discuss it with him.” “You’re sure?” “Yes I’m sure. You’re still coming back here on Wednesday though aren’t you?” “Of course I am. That’s not the issue.” 111

“I could get Peter to cover your class for you on Thursday. Do you have anything on Friday?” “No. But it won’t be necessary to call Peter. I miss you. I want to be back home Wednesday.” “I miss you too. Now listen. Don’t let Henri bully you when you call him today. That would only cause more friction in the future.” “Of course I won’t.” “So what are you going to do then? Call me back and let me know how it all goes? Fax me?” “I suppose I can call again.” “It’s cheaper if I call you, you know. Give me a time when you’re there.”

But when I hung up I felt guilty, whether for staying longer, or for putting the option in his mouth, or both, I don’t know.

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ater that morning Maurice lingered near the main desk hoping to catch a private moment in order to ask about staying longer. He did not want to be overheard, and was especially uneasy about running into Dobbs. Some of the conference people were already checking out, causing tinges of exhilaration and fear. But he did not see Dobbs around. Was he doing the right thing? Why was he so agitated? Finally there was an opening. The desk clerk checked his computer, but frowned. “You are scheduled to check out tomorrow morning. How much longer did you say you wanted to stay?” “Through Tuesday night.” “We have another convention arriving tomorrow. The hotel is very booked.” Maurice felt his heart sink. The clerk glanced up at him and, his heart racing, Maurice added, “Perhaps longer. Perhaps a week . . .” “Well, let me ask. Perhaps there is something. Can you wait here a minute? I have to ask for you.” “Yes. It’s all right.” 113

The clerk disappeared into the back room and returned with the manager. The manager said, “You wish to stay longer?” “A few extra days. A week, perhaps. I haven’t seen everything I need to see for my work. I want to get up to Dougga and some of the other Roman ruins. Kairouan too . . .” He stopped himself. His defensiveness was showing. He continued, “If you could find something, I’d very much appreciate it.” “I think we might be able to find something.” He picked up the house phone. “I’ll have to check to see what is ready.” There was a rapid conversation in Arabic. The manager put his hand over the mouthpiece and said to Maurice, “I’ve sent someone to check on the situation. You do want a single?” Maurice said, “Yes. I’m alone. I’m with the conference.” The manager nodded, and Maurice added, “This depends on my being able to change my flights to Paris and New York, of course.” “It should not be a problem at this season. We can call for you. Do you have your tickets with you?” “Yes.” He had them ready in his hand. The manager rifled through them with one hand, the other still holding the phone. “You’re booked to stop over a few days in Paris before continuing to New York. Do you want us to change both flights?” “Yes.” “I’m sure that won’t be a problem. There are early morning flights every day from Tunis to Paris. You should have plenty of time to make your connecting flight to New York. Shall I do it for next Saturday, then? Will that be all right?” “Yes, yes. That’ll be fine.” A voice came over the phone and there were more rapid words. “Good. There are rooms ready. We can put you in our new wing, if this is all right with you. I was just checking to see if we could put you in an area where there is no construction, and it should be all right. It is very comfortable there. There are not many other people, though. If that would not bother you. We are not opening it officially for two 114

months.” He turned to the computer monitor. “I see there is one family. On the ground floor, with children. But we have a room on the second floor away from them. With a balcony. Overlooking the sea.” “It sounds perfect.” “Oh yes, there are no dining facilities there yet. You will not mind walking across to the main building for your meals? Of course, there is twenty-four-hour room service.” “I won’t mind the walk. It sounds fine. But may I see the room first?” “Of course, of course. Let me get a key.” He went into the back and returned with keys. “We can phone the airline while you see the room. We should have it worked out by the time you’re back here.” He was directed toward a side door, but as he walked out toward the new buildings he felt his guilt reassert itself. Staying longer than he had discussed with Eddie? On an impulse. And Henri? He never rose before noon. He’d have to phone after the morning session. Henri could easily make things into a viper’s tangle if he thought himself misused, a kind of social conscience run amok. He had to be very sensitive about Henri’s friendship with Eddie and Eddie’s translation of Henri’s new novel, Eddie’s study of his works, Eddie’s little collection of photographs that Henri, the photography critic for Le Monde, was helping him build. As Eddie said, he could be a bully sometimes, play the offended queen. What if he were furious about missing the dinner party tomorrow? He could not possibly mention that he would not even see him on his way home. The new wing was a two-story, whitewashed square structure in a Moorish style, with a central courtyard and fountain, an interior garden open to the sun. The interior was refreshingly cool, still, and immaculately clean. He could hear the family behind closed doors, amplified by the stillness. The stairwell was tiled in a blue and white geometric design. Bird-song in the open garden, the sound of splashing water, echoed upstairs. The room was larger and quieter than the one he was in. There were reproductions of Mughal art on the walls. The colors were muted browns and blues, the furnishings and even the bedclothes 115

were more tasteful. There were plump, fresh towels in the bathroom. Had the manager called ahead or had the room been prepared earlier? He had not seen a maid anywhere. He went onto the balcony. Below was an unfinished garden, groves of palm trees and turned soil waiting for plants. A couple of hundred yards away was the sea, close enough to be heard and glimpsed. A path led from the back door through the dunes to the beach; he could walk directly to the water, without having to pass through the hotel gardens or pool areas, without encountering anyone, in his own private world. He went back to the main building, suppressing his excitement. It was so much better than he had expected that it made him feel confident that he was doing the right thing. The manager was still at the reception desk. “The room is perfect. Were you able to reach the airline?” “Oh yes, there was no trouble changing your flights. There is a hundred fifty dinar surcharge, however. I hope this is all right? If not I will call back.” “It’s all right. I expected it.” “They will deliver the new set of tickets for you on Monday morning. You can pick them up here.” “Good. Thank you. If you don’t mind I’ll take my bags over there now. I’m giving a lecture this morning at ten, and a seminar this afternoon, and I’d like to get the move over now.” “The head maid told me everything was in order, but did you see anything you would need?” “No. Everything was ready.” “Good. You can move immediately if you like. When you have your bags ready, call the desk and we’ll send a boy to carry them over. I’ll arrange it for you now.” He picked up the extension phone and dialed two numbers in rapid succession. “I will have the room double checked for you, just in case something was forgotten.” “Thank you. You’re very kind.” He gave him a generous tip. It had all gone so well. Was it fate? he wondered, half in jest. In every Muslim country, for a few moments at least, one should have 116

an experience of fate, he thought, rather like Andy Warhol’s fifteen minutes of fame. A half-hour later as he was standing near the side exit door with the porter, making sure his bags were secure on the dolly, he was accosted by Dobbs. “My God, you’re not leaving are you? I thought you were speaking this morning.” “I decided to stay on a few days longer. To see Dougga and Kairouan. The Tunis medina if I can. They’ve put me in a new wing out beyond the tennis courts over there.” “If you’re staying on, perhaps I can convince you to join me in Sidi? At least for one night. I’m going up there tomorrow.” “Well, you know you just might.” “Wonderful. We can talk about it at lunch.” “Yes, all right . . . no wait. I’m supposed to phone a friend in Paris. But perhaps during the cocktail hour at five we can get off into a corner together.” “Yes, certainly.” The porter had gone on ahead, and as he let himself into his new room he saw that his bags were already there. The boy had not waited for a tip, but Maurice was sure he would see him around later. He had thoughtfully opened the balcony doors. The vitrage curtain billowed in a fresh breeze off the sea. As he was settling his things again, it occurred to him that this moment really marked his true arrival here. He was relieved not to be rushing off to Paris the next day. This had been a working trip, but now he could have some time to himself. The last time that had happened was years ago on a four-day, weekend gay retreat in the Blue Ridge Mountains. It was only a few months after Eddie’s diagnosis. The first uncertain signs of his stabilization had still not appeared. He should not have gone away then. Things were different now. They had their routine. Eddie had Helen, his telephone buddies; the responsibilities spread thinner over a wider field of friends, acquaintances, and support groups. Staying on a bit longer could not be an issue? He really did want to see the other Roman 117

sites and Kairouan. There was a little bookshop in the tourist district. He would try to find some books to read about the country or Islam; visit Dobbs. See Tunis and the Halfouine district. Perhaps Nidhal would go with him? The boy struck such a chord in him because of the lack of language, because language had been communicating so many difficult things lately. It could be a form of tragedy or treachery. Doing without it carried not only the virtue of simplicity but also the challenge of learning a common language of signs and signals. Returned him to basics. During the noon break, as he was passing the desk on his way to his new room, the clerk waved him over. He half expected that they were about to take the room away from him. Too good to be true? But he was handed a message from Henri saying simply, “Call me as soon as possible.” Eddie must have phoned Henri already. He should have thought of that and preempted it. Anyone might answer Henri’s phone. He had a steady stream of visitors. Very often his students would simply fall asleep on the sofa or in chairs after all-night discussions, youths in their late teens or early twenties, admirers, followers of the French cult of the artist. But Henri’s long drawl came over the line. “Ahhhloooooo.” “Henri? Is that you? I didn’t expect you to answer. I was just on my way to phone you when they gave me your message. You must have just called two minutes ago. I had my last lecture this morning and was just wrapping up the questions.” “Ah, Maurice. Yes. I just called. How did the lecture go?” “A lot of people have left already so it wasn’t as well attended as my first talk, but I was satisfied. There were good questions and comments afterward, also.” “And the conference? You were not looking forward to it.” “It actually went better than I had thought. I’ve ended up being glad I came.” “From what I’ve heard for more reasons than the conference. I want to hear all about it.”

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“You must have talked to Eddie, I suppose. Did he phone you this morning? I hope you’re not angry with me for not coming tomorrow.” “Angry? Mais non. Disappointed perhaps. I made such marvelous dinner plans for you. For your seduction of beautiful Guy, who will now feel heartbroken. He’s been asking me all sorts of questions about you. You’re a very romantic man for him.” Maurice could not always judge accurately when Henri was pulling his leg or when he was serious, but he felt now he was at least half in jest. “Oh please. I’m sure he won’t give it a second thought.” Henri said, “Oh, but you’re wrong. The successful New York professor with his name to so many books. It is a very sexy thing for a little peasant boy from the provinces.” Peasant or provincial hardly described Guy’s family chateau. Maurice said, “But seriously, you’re not angry are you? I’m sorry about the dinner party, but I didn’t know anything about it or I might have thought twice before changing my plans.” “No, I’m not angry. But I am worried. Eddie does not think you’re telling him the whole truth, you know.” “Of course I am.” “Then you aren’t having some torrid affair and trying to spare his feelings?” “No. Is that what he thinks?” “Why wouldn’t he? You are the least impulsive person I know and yet you are acting impulsively.” “I suppose that’s a compliment.” Although if it was it was a rather complicated one. Henri asked, “You haven’t met someone? A wild Arab lover perhaps? You have not said no yet. You know I will keep a confidence. You’re trying to spare Eddie’s feelings, aren’t you?” “No. There’s nothing going on. Certainly nothing torrid, as you say. I just wanted some time on my own. I haven’t had that for years. And I haven’t seen half the Roman sites yet. I hadn’t expected to like

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it here. You remember how I dreaded coming. I was just looking forward to getting the conference over and done with, but I’m rather enjoying it.” “Enjoying Sousse. Oh come now. You must be going mad. Alors! You can tell me or not tell me.” “Yes, but you’re going to jump to conclusions. I can tell you will before I even say anything.” “Ah ha! I knew I was right. So, what really is going on?” “Well there is this boy. . . . Don’t you dare interrupt! He’s a deafmute I met on the beach.” “A deaf-mute. A beggar you mean?” “No, not a beggar. He wasn’t begging. A deaf-mute. He was just walking on the beach. I take him swimming.” “You take him swimming? How old is he?” “Well he says he’s fifteen, but I think he’s younger.” “My God, a child. What’s this then?” “I shouldn’t have mentioned it.” “Wait. Don’t tell me. You’re not trying to help him are you.” “Well, yes. As a matter of fact.” “Mon dieu. Really, Maurice. No sooner do you get away from Eddie than you revert to this priest thing again. He’s very poor, I suppose. Needy?” “I don’t know, really. There seems to be something bad going on in his family, because he has bruises on his body.” “Bruises? You mean he is being beaten? My God! You are getting yourself in over your head, aren’t you? I mean, how can you hope to help him?” “Well, I don’t know yet. I mean, I’m trying to find out now what I can do to help.” “My God, this is making me angry. So this is why you want to stay a few extra day, then? To try to help him? To find out more?” “Well, yes. I suppose that is the heart of the matter. To see if there’s something I can do for him, help him and his family in some way.” “And you’re fucking him?” “No! Not at all.” 120

“Oh come now. That sounds very defensive.” “I’m not. I knew you would think that. I knew you would jump to conclusions.” “My lady doth protest too much. If you haven’t you must want to. What is it? Circumstantial? You haven’t found a place to take him?” “Please, Henri. As I said, I just want to help him in some way.” “With no . . . what shall we call them . . . hidden motives.” “No, I don’t think so.” “I might believe you more if you said there were, you know.” “Acting out some dark impulses of the id. Or something like that, I suppose? Marxism is bad enough, but Freudian Marxism . . .” “Ah, very clever. Not answering but attacking. An old ploy. You wouldn’t be the first to give in to the wiles of Arab boys, you know. Think of Gide. All those Protestant scruples of his crumbling away when he was seduced in the sand. In Sousse, no less! You see, I am right! The dam broke for him. And you’re following in his footsteps. A little experimentation is all right. For someone like you it may even be liberating.” “What do you mean for someone like me?” “You see you are defensive. I did not mean the remark to be offensive. It’s a fact, though. You are always so responsible. Play the good person every second. You need this, perhaps, to assert some independence from this Eddie thing. The plague makes us all crazy. Takes its toll, doesn’t it.” “Well, perhaps. But the fact still is that there is nothing going on between me and the boy.” “But there is a great deal going on between you and the boy. It’s perfectly obvious.” “Well, in that sense, yes.” “If you do not want to call it sex, what do you want to call it, then?” “I don’t know. A bond. I can feel a bond forming between us. I want to play it out further.” “A bond! The Maghreb has turned you into a raving romantic! A bond.” 121

“Don’t mock me. I was trying to explain.” “All right, then, I’ll listen.” “When I arrived I hated it here, but I feel as if the longer I stay the more and more layers I sink down through. That’s what Nidhal . . . that’s the boy . . . well, Nidhal is leading me into life here, into the nature of the place. I can’t leave just now, not at this minute.” Henri said, “I should come over there, you know. To see for myself. How much longer do you think you’ll be there?” “Another week. I told them this morning.” “A week! But Maurice! You told Eddie you were going back to New York on Wednesday! Now I hear another week. And I suppose you will not be stopping in Paris either?” “Well, I’m not sure.” “Honestly, you have gone mad. It must be sex. Nothing else can make people this mad. And another thing. A great big thing. Eddie never mentioned this boy. This Nidhal. So I take it that you have said nothing to him about all of this?” “No, I haven’t. I don’t want you to either.” “So how do you explain not telling him, then? How?” “I don’t know how. My instinct tells me that it would hurt him too much. More than telling him I had met some hot Arab on the beach.” “Hurt him?” “Yes. I think Nidhal would be more threatening to him.” “More threatening. Now I am not following you at all. Really, I should come down there right away and see this boy for myself. Today even. Is he beautiful at least?” “Well, no, not really. He’s rather plain.” “Plain. Oh, that’s perfect. Really, I tell you I should come down there immediately.” “No, I don’t want you to come here. I need to be doing this on my own. Have this time to myself.” “Yes. I suppose you do. But North Africa does things to people you know, especially people who are too rational, like you.”

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“Oh really, Henri. What a bloody hypocrite. First you criticize me for acting impulsively and then you criticize me for being too rational. I can’t win either way.” “So I suppose I should be glad for you? But I’m not. I’m worried.” “Listen, I have a seminar in a few minutes and haven’t even had lunch yet. Let’s continue this some other time.” “Call me again tonight, then. I’ll be here about eight. I want to think about this. Yes, at eight. I’m sure I’ll be home then.” “That won’t work out. Tonight is the closing banquet for the conference and it’s likely to drag on for a while.” “What time can you call me, then? Call all night if you want.” “I don’t know. No. Not tonight. Tomorrow maybe. You’re making too much of this, you know. I really don’t want you to do that. For Eddie’s sake. I’ll call you back when I can.” “All right, all right. I’m still not sure I shouldn’t come, but I’ll wait for your call.” “Listen I have to get off the phone now. I’m getting a hunger headache.” “All right, all right . . . à bientot.”

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he sign said that the rabat was to close at five, in forty-five minutes, but Maurice went in nevertheless. The fort was on the other side of the main medina square, opposite the mosque. Despite passing it several times, and despite its being recommended as the oldest site in the medina, he had not been inside. The small courtyard, surrounded by porticos, was crowded. There was a spiral staircase to the top of the round watchtower, but as he tried to ascend a horde of descending, noisy sightseers forced him back. This late in the afternoon, on a Sunday, the site should have been empty, and he might have repeated his luck visiting the amphitheater in El Djem. He wanted a moment’s peace, to collect his thoughts and decide on his next step. A family moved from a section of wall along the parapet and he rushed over to take it. It looked out over the rooftops. He thought he could identify the square school building, and the wooden frame of al-Safadi’s house. He had just come from searching for him at his usual place on the street. Not only was he not there, but the atmosphere had been hostile and it had shaken him. Had he unwittingly 124

violated some custom, some rule of hospitality? Indeed, the whole day had made him dizzy, as if he had been led in circles. He would have tried al-Safadi’s house after the encounter, but felt confused. Perhaps he should give up and go back to his hotel? But it was early. He would sit for a few minutes to get his bearings. How little he understood the culture. He tried to recall each step, each word, what he might have done wrong. Examining the day moment-by-moment, event-by-event, was an old Ignatian discipline, to develop virtue; he used it when he felt thrown off kilter and wanted to re-center himself. He recalled that as he had wandered up the pedestrian street, he saw immediately that al-Safadi wasn’t there. The obstructing stack of crates had finally been removed, and obviously neither al-Safadi nor Nidhal were around. A man was standing in the adjoining doorway. Maurice asked him if he had seen al-Safadi today, but the man only glowered and hurried away as if Maurice were a leper. Perhaps at this point Maurice should have continued on his way. But the young woman who had brought tea to al-Safadi’s house was standing in front of her father’s café, so he went across to question her. When she saw Maurice coming, she pulled her veil across her face and hurried inside. The owner came to the front, wiping his hands on an apron. Maurice asked for a fresh orange juice. A large pitcher of freshly squeezed juice was kept in a small refrigerator, and the man returned a minute later with a large glass full. Maurice thanked him, and politely asked if al-Safadi was back today. Maurice knew alSafadi was not going to be around for a couple of days, he said, but did the man know if he had come back early? The man said sarcastically, “What would you want with the iman? He comes and he goes. It’s none of your business.” “But . . .” “Go away. I haven’t seen him.” “Do you at least know if he’s home? Your daughter brought us tea there the other day.” “Go away. If he wanted to meet you he would have said.” “I thought he might have left a message for me?” 125

“A message? Why would he leave a message for you?” “You don’t understand . . .” “I do understand. I understand it is none of your business. I told you, you better go away. Do you want trouble? I can call people. They will make you go away.” Over her father’s shoulder, he could see that the girl was frightened. The man was persisting: “You are not welcome here. Pay and leave or I will call people. . . . Pay and leave.” Maurice paid and left without finishing his juice. For a few moments he wandered aimlessly, indecisively, before stumbling back into the medina square, into the rabat. Why were they against him? From where he was sitting now, on the wall, he could look down onto the entrance. People were still streaming in. Perhaps the sign was wrong and it did not close at five. Most of the people were locals and he wondered whether there was going to be some special event. He had not noticed any unusual notices at the entrance. If he waited he would find out, without having to ask. A crowd was lining up to ascend the tower, but they were opposite him. His side was empty, giving him a respite. He took out the Graves novel but could not concentrate, and put it back. No, he didn’t understand the place and so he shouldn’t read too many motives into the café owner’s behavior. He might have had a bad day, or a fight with his daughter, or been worried about money. It all probably had nothing to do with him. But what about the man in the doorway? Maurice could not shake off his unease. He took out his notebook and read a few of the entries he had made over the course of the day. As he scanned the page he could see that it was varied, full, odd perhaps. He had reason to feel tired, hungry, alone; or alive, grateful. But uncertain of himself, confused? Today, of all days, he should have felt free in Sousse. By late that morning Dobbs and the remaining conference members had left. It was his first day in Sousse without a speech or seminar, the preparation of notes for the afternoon’s or next day’s proceedings, a luncheon or dinner engagement—without, that is, any of the intimations or responsibilities of work that had so far colored each day’s reality. 126

Sunday had dawned sunny and warm, the haze suffusing the sky slowly dissolving into an azure blue. It occurred to him, as he took his breakfast out onto the balcony of his new room, that in a way he was just beginning his stay here; all of the rest had just been preparation. There were so many things he wanted to do, visit Kairouan and Dougga, find out more about the Sufi sects in Nefta, explore the oldest part of the Tunis medina, Halfaouine, which Dobbs said was the most authentic in the country. Above all, swim in the sea, his sea. A German senior citizen’s exercise group met on the beach every morning for aerobics and water polo. If they could tolerate the cold water in this season he could. At nine o’clock, he was down at the water’s edge. The placid Mediterranean was undisturbed by wind. Every morning and noon one of the hotel staff wrote the air and water temperature on the outside blackboard, and that morning it read 18 and 14 centigrade, respectively. He thought he would find that cold but adjusted quickly and swam out a bit. He was a strong swimmer, from all those years as a boy on the team practicing, or rather lusting furtively. There was no undertow. For a moment he let himself sink beneath the surface, to fully immerse himself, then surfaced and turned on his back to float. A plane flew over trailing a long vapor cloud, so high he could not hear it. He dove again, but deeper. The bottom was too far down to reach or see, and he headed to the surface again. Half a mile out a freighter plied its way; a yacht was closing. Were their motors the distant drumming he had heard underwater? He dove again; surfaced; floated peacefully. The sea was alive with sounds. Not just the roar of pressure on his ears, but so much more. Yet the surface had seemed so still that he had been reluctant to break it. A deceptive surface stillness. Like Nidhal’s world, perhaps? A soundless world not completely soundless? Alive with its own sounds, sounds he could not describe to others because they were sounds that others never heard, the rushes and rustlings of private winds, the mutterings of interior conversations disturbed by muffled cries? If Nidhal were with him now he could not have been able to swim out to such depths, not without Maurice holding him. Perhaps 127

those games he played with the sea meant that the sea was inaccessible to him and yet represented his world? On the land the boy was independent and self-reliant, but in the pool he needed support. He lay back trustfully in Maurice’s arms, and Maurice wanted to protect him, as when he saw him on the boardwalk with those brutes, or when he compared his thin arms and legs with the vigor of Marie’s children. That day, when they were all done with swimming and were preparing to leave, the boys had stripped off their bathing suits unselfconsciously, but Nidhal had undressed under a large white beach towel. He squeezed onto Maurice’s chair with him. And Marie said, rather angrily, “He’s very attached to you.” He nodded agreement, and felt, yes, protective. Before coming down to swim Maurice had wandered up and down the beach looking for Nidhal. The whole day, too, he had looked for him. To no avail. It was his own fault. He should have tried harder on Friday, as they were separating, to make clearer “theday-after-tomorrow at eight,” but he had failed completely to convey it. The conference had gone on all day Saturday and well into the night, creating a break in their daily routine. As Maurice walked the beach in the early morning he still had high hopes he would simply run across him. Later, wandering along the beach and boardwalk into town, he still thought he would stumble on Nidhal in one of the places he had seen him before, the grocery store at the main intersection, or the appliance shop in the new arcade where he caught him standing in front of a television set, staring at the flickering of mute images. Would he have to begin again? Could he make things different this week? Find out things about him: who his parents were, where they lived, the context of his life? Would he be able to begin to make arrangements for him? Build on what had been begun? Understand? Two children ran screaming past him, stopped and asked if he could take their picture. Their father hurried over to lead them away by the hand. These notes he had made, what did they suggest? He looked at his watch. Four forty. There were only a few minutes left to closing, but he felt no less confused. He looked down onto the 128

medina square. Was that the rent boy crossing the square toward the fountain? But, no, it was not. At noon, he had been sitting there on the ledge of the fountain basin checking off his list of tasks for the day, the list now completed. He had felt full of confidence then. Whereas on weekdays the square was busy with children hurrying back and forth to class and women returning home laden with bags of fruit and vegetables and round, flat loaves of bread, today there were mostly throngs of tourists and local men lingering in groups. Some of those hustlers were sitting on the other side of the fountain ledge. The one wearing the white sweater had talked to him earlier in the week, and he had rebuffed him. The boy tried his most fetching smile, again, but Maurice opened his notebook, to look preoccupied, so they would all leave him alone. “Fax Eddie” was crossed off. “I’ll probably try to phone you later in the day to let you know how my conversation with Henri went”— Had he really written “probably”? Eddie would certainly seize on the word—“although there isn’t that much to tell other than that it went smoothly. Henri did not seem to mind my canceling the visit”—Was that also true?—“not that much to tell . . . did not seem to mind.” “Call or fax H” was also crossed off, but he had done neither. It worried him that Henri might not just be teasing him and would really fly on down to Sousse against Maurice’s wishes, to impress on him the gravitas of the situation, a word he might very well use. Maurice had started a letter but then had crumpled it up and thrown it away. “Dear Henri. . . . I really hope you were not offended by my change of plans, as you reassured me on the phone”— “as you reassured me”? Henri would find that manipulative—“I really do need some time on my own, as I hope I made crystal clear on the phone”—“crystal clear”? Too aggressive and insistent? In essence, leave me alone?—“and I do want to emphasize how necessary it is for you not to say anything to Eddie about either Nidhal or my staying on longer.” At that point he had thrown the letter away. Several other matters were also crossed off. “Buy writing paper / air mail envelopes /send Peter, Helen, Marc E., Marc W. postcards . . . 129

Buy Helen’s gift.” The heavy parcel was next to him on the wall. He had also crossed off “Get Dobbs’s Sidi phone number.” Maurice hadn’t seen Dobbs at breakfast and he hoped he hadn’t left, but when he phoned Dobbs in his room he was there. He told Dobbs he would be staying on longer and Dobbs had suggested he visit Sidi Tuesday or Wednesday. Maurice was to call him the following morning to finalize the plan. Sitting earlier by the fountain he had also jotted down some thoughts: “Growing to like Sousse? New York and Sousse? An interplay of contrasts? Layering of time?” What had he meant by all that? That incident in November? He’d been Christmas shopping in the Bowery and had seen a small, soot-covered man carrying a long pole come out of a building, and he realized the man must be a chimneysweep. But when he told Eddie and his friends about it they thought he was delusional. There were no chimney-sweeps left in Manhattan, at least not any that worked with long brooms. They all had computerized machines to do the job now. Perhaps he had stumbled onto a movie set? He could not convince them. He had added these comments: “Societies exist simultaneously in different temporal modes. . . . Sousse wears them openly/New York denies them. Why I like it here?” Perhaps all gay men had an innate nostalgia for the ancient Mediterranean world, their identity roots reaching deep into the collective homosexual psyche? In making these notes by the fountain and returning his notebook to his knapsack, he’d promptly made what he thought at the time was a mistake. He had smiled at one of the hustlers sitting nearby and the boy had immediately come over. The boy’s white sweater had caught Maurice’s eye—an intricate cable pattern attractively setting off his brown skin, no doubt lovingly hand-knitted by a caring mother. The hustler’s mother with a heart of gold, Maurice had thought, making him grin. The boy misinterpreted the grin as an invitation. “Bonjour, Monsieur. I remember you from the other day. An American? Am I right?” He was in his early twenties, slim, clean-shaven, nervous; he had been too heavy with the cheap cologne that morning. He plucked 130

bits of stray dust from his sweater, ran the creases of his trousers between his fingers to sharpen them, or draw attention to his slender legs. A heavy-link, gold chain showed above the crew neck of the sweater, a Latin-masculine gender-badge, as Henri referred to it, “like those things boy scouts wear.” “Well yes, you are right. You have a good memory.” “For faces, yes. You must like Sousse if you have not left yet.” “Well, yes. I do.” “A beautiful town, don’t you think?” “Some of it is.” “The medina. The mosque. And the weather is perfect all year. Every day.” “Yes, it does seem to be.” “Are you staying much longer?” “No, not that much longer.” “You have a comfortable hotel?” “Yes, it’s very comfortable.” “Out on the tourist strip? With the other hotels? I think I saw you one day walking on the beach?” “Well, yes. Right again.” The boy had tapped his head. “You see. My fine memory. But those hotels . . . I find them too far out of town, don’t you? They are not convenient for all that goes on here. We have a disco, you know. It begins late. I’ve never seen you there. No. I don’t like those hotels. You have to take taxis all the time. And be careful! They cheat you, you know.” “So far I’ve been lucky. Mostly I walk back and forth. I need the exercise.” “At night you should not walk alone.” “I don’t usually come into town at night and I don’t mind the walk during the day. The weather is so good.” “Still, it would be nice for you to be close to town, don’t you think? Everyone wants this. A nice apartment of their own. With a beautiful lobby and even a balcony. A view of the sea. Everybody wants this.” 131

“Well, I don’t know. My hotel is very nice. I don’t have to do anything for myself.” “Yes. There is that. I have to admit. But an apartment to rent. That is much better. In your own place you are truly free.” “Well, I suppose so.” The boy slid closer. “You see. It is your lucky day today because I happen to have an apartment to rent.” “You have an apartment to rent?” “Well no, not exactly. My uncle owns many buildings in Sousse and I help him look after them. It’s my uncle’s apartment. But I am in charge of it. A very responsible position.” “Oh, I see. You’re the agent, you mean?” “Yes. That’s it. An agent . . . I even have a card.” He had taken out his wallet and had extracted a business card, which Maurice only glanced at before tucking it into his shirt pocket. “Now, the apartment. The one I am thinking of. It is a very good apartment. Furnished to a high standard with beautiful furnishings. Very quiet and private. Even with a microwave. It is not far from here.” “Well, I don’t really think I want to rent an apartment.” “But what harm is there in looking?” “Well, I was on my way to do something.” “It is very close. It will only take a minute you know. Or five. Ten at the most.” “Where is it?” “Just there. In the new district just on the other side of the railroad station. Ten minutes to walk at most.” See it for future reference, out of curiosity? For the long run an apartment might come in handy. “We can see it now? I mean, right away?” “Yes. Immediately. It just came free yesterday and no one has yet rented it. You see how lucky you are.” The boy stood. “I will show it to you now and you will fall in love with it. You will see . . . on the top floor . . . with an elevator . . . and a view of the sea. It is what everyone wants you know. Very special.”

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“Really, I don’t know. It sounds too expensive. Maybe I’d better not see it.” “Expensive! Mais non. Not at all. It all depends on how long you stay. First you should see it. I just have to get the keys from my uncle’s office, but it’s on the way. If you want you can have immediate occupancy, as you say in America.” “Well, really, I’m very comfortable in my hotel. But if you don’t mind showing it to me on those terms.” “Of course not. That is my job. You will see. It is much better than any hotel room. You will not be able to say no.” A loudspeaker screeched and was turned down, breaking Maurice’s train of thought. The fort was closing in fifteen minutes. No one seemed to be paying any attention. He should have gone back to the hotel to shower after being with the boy. His hands, his thighs, smelled of the cheap cologne. What was his name? He took the business card out of his pocket. In gold letters, “Chedli”; underneath, a mobile phone number. The apartment was better than expected; on the top floor of a new building, well furnished and quiet, with modern kitchen and bath. The balcony offered a splendid view over the rooftops of the medina and a glimpse of the sea beyond. He was tempted to leave the hotel and rent it, but would it mean independence or entanglement? The boy too had proved a resourceful if amusing partner. As each item of clothing was discarded he had declared another rule. I will do this, this, and this, but most definitely not that, that, or that. But just as quickly, as they proceeded, the rules were forgotten one by one “in the heat of passion.” He put the business card back in his shirt pocket. Would the boy go with the apartment, his own concierge of the senses? The same screech and crackling. Ten minutes to closing. The loudspeaker’s decibel level and insistence, his own indecisiveness, annoyed him. He closed his notebook but did not put it back in his knapsack; moved the heavy parcel closer to his side. The shopkeeper had wrapped Helen’s serving bowl in brown paper, like meat was wrapped when he was a child growing up in his small, upstate New

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York town. Perhaps he should have tried to find al-Safadi before buying it? Perhaps he had only been a little late? The shopkeeper had been busy with another client when he had entered. They were discussing a shipment, in English. He seemed to recognize Maurice from the day he was there with Dobbs, and greeted Maurice warmly. They exchanged a few words. The small but elegant vase he had decided on in his mind was still on the shelf, and was also signed by the same “R. A. / Fez” that had signed the pot that Dobbs had chosen for his housekeeper. But he was suddenly unsure of it. Helen liked stylized birds, plants, and fish, as on Egyptian artifacts. The blue and white geometric design was not quite right for her. He had noticed some red and yellow serving bowls with flower and bird patterns near the front, but the shopkeeper was blocking that section, still discussing his sale with the same man. He would have to be patient. The man had glanced at him and they exchanged smiles. He was impeccably dressed in expensive cords, a light blue linen shirt and brown leather jacket. He carried an elegant, matching brown leather bag over his shoulder, wore gold-rimmed glasses and had a dignified, if haughty expression, an alert, intelligent face; a college professor or lawyer, someone who had the time or need to play tennis and keep fit. He could imagine him teaching political philosophy. They finished their discussion and the shopkeeper went to the front of the shop to greet a group of Germans that had just wandered in. Again they had exchanged glances. Maurice was about to approach him when a boy slipped between the Germans and went up to the man, greeting him familiarly. Maurice drifted a few feet away, but still within hearing distance. The boy was thin and wiry, with an open, cheerful face, not hardened as some of the beggar street boys. The man glanced at Maurice but did not seem self-conscious. As he reflected on it later, he realized he had spoken French with the shopkeeper and the man might have assumed he knew no English; or been at ease. The man’s accent was German, Eastern European, or Scandinavian.

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He was saying, “You’re very clever. This is exactly the shop I was looking for. Thank you for pointing it out to me.” The boy’s English was halting but adequate. “You see, I told you how well I know the town. I’ll be your best guide. I know all the history, too. No one else can tell you as much as I can about the mosque, the rabat, the kasbah.” “You must be very intelligent and pay attention in school. Do you like to study?” “Sure. I’m a good student.” “It’s important to get a good education. I’m a schoolteacher, you know. In Prague. Do you know where that is?” “In Europe.” “No. I mean, what country?” “Germany, maybe?” “Good heavens, no. It’s in the Czech Republic. But that was a hard one. I’ll draw you a little map to show you where it is. I teach boys your age. And coach football too. You like football?” “I love football. Ajax. Manchester United. Barcelona. I know all the teams.” “Are you a good player?” “I’m very fast. I scored all the goals in our last game.” “Are you playing this week. I’ll come and see you.” “And cheer for me! Do you play too?” “Yes, with some of the other teachers. We have a team and sometimes play against the students. They’re better than we are and we usually lose. Are you in school tomorrow?” “No. This week we have a holiday. There are many special things going on in Sousse for this week. Yesterday, there was a dance match for children . . . no, not match, how do you say it in English?” “Contest? Competition? Festival?” “Competition. That’s it. The Maltese school kids won. They are very good. They practice all the time. On Thursday there is a parade, and I am in with my team.” “You are? I’ll make sure to come and see it.”

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“Good. You see, we can meet every day. I am the best tour guide to Sousse there is. You finished here? We go now? It is a little late and things are closed, but I can show you special ruins down the beach.” “I have to get my package from the counter and then I’m finished.” “I carry it for you. Your bag, too. You have camera? You take picture of me? You send them to me maybe. I’ll give you my address.” The loudspeaker interrupted a third time. “Closing, closing. Everyone leave.” But Maurice hastily jotted down one last phrase before putting his notebook away: “an act of self-observation is not always an act of observation of oneself.” He closed it. But reopened it. A poem had flashed through his mind. A guard was walking toward him, but he hastily wrote it down.

h o m a g e t o c ava f y I wiped the sleepers from your eyes. We parted furtively, names withheld.

As he exited the rabat Maurice glanced at his watch. 5:07 precisely. The square was nearly empty, the air filled with cooking smells. As it was getting on to dinner time, the character and mood of the street were shifting. The few tourists that were wandering around were peering vacantly at the wares before the shop fronts, the stacks being reduced as the shopkeepers began to close, or were heading toward the main gate and back to their hotels. A boy passed carrying a puppy. He stopped wistfully to examine new skateboards and rollerblades before moving on. An elderly man in a brown burnoose walked by him, holding in one hand a low stool and in the other a lute. He set the stool down by a wall, between two cafés. The melodies were intricate, woven, melancholic; they echoed in the darkening, emptying square. Paris was often moody like this, in the sixties, when he first went there as a student, but less so now; New York, never. None of the usual beggars and panhandlers were about, everyone with a purpose. That frenetic young man he had seen chasing 136

after the nearly naked German couple, and who had stopped to ask him for a light when he had seen him the following days loitering on the shopping street, now hurried by with only a nod. If he stayed here long enough they’d all begin to recognize him. “Oh yes, that American professor who sits at al-Safadi’s feet,” as a joke. He stopped, realizing he did not know where he was going and had to decide. And suddenly it seemed simple.

Several young men were standing at the door to the old schoolhouse. He paused in a doorway opposite to see if they would enter or leave, pulled out a map, and pretended to study it. They were talking animatedly and it was many minutes before they wandered off. They seemed angry. He entered the old schoolhouse warily. A low conversational murmur echoed down the tiled halls like the distant chatter of migrating birds, perched. At the end of the hallway, in the courtyard to al-Safadi’s house, more young men were lingering, and through the open door, in the sitting room, others were standing around in groups talking. They were of a different sort than he had seen before. Full-bearded, clothed in red and white check turbans, some with green head bands, immaculately white robes and sandals, or expensive Western clothes. Al-Safadi was seated on cushions at the far side. A dark blue wool shawl covered his head and shoulders; beads coursed through his fingers. Nidhal was bending over him, handing him a glass of tea. He was wearing the same lace white skullcap and green striped light brown gandoura from Friday. He did not glance up, nor see Maurice standing in the doorway. He had been right to assume the boy would be with al-Safadi. To reach them Maurice had to thread his way between the men, past two large, low brass tables piled with empty glasses and dishes, a lectern, al-Safadi’s wheelchair, and a number of cushions that had been strewn around for seats. The only foreigner, his selfconsciousness made his progress seem slow motion. Some fell silent as he drew near; most glances were suspicious if not hostile. One 137

man, speaking in Arabic, apparently for his benefit, switched to French, “Tunisia! Which Tunisia! It is not even an Arabic name.” He glanced at Maurice to see if he might draw him in, and added, “Baghdad. Cordoba. These were our great centers of creative life. Now we are soft and decadent. Western.” Maurice passed without comment. He lost sight of Nidhal, but suddenly there he was standing in front of him grinning broadly. He took Maurice’s hand and led him the rest of the way to al-Safadi. “The deaf-mute boy leading the blind man,” Maurice thought. Al-Safadi called something and an elderly man brought Maurice a wooden folding chair. Hadn’t he seen the man sweeping out the mosque the day he fled the crazy thief ? He was sure he had. Al-Safadi held out his hand. “So, Monsieur Burke. You’re fortunate. You’ve come too late for our meeting.” “I don’t know about fortunate. I might have learned something. Was it your Koran group?” “Please. Sit down. Pull your chair closer. I wish it was the madrassa. But no, it was politics. All politics.” It would have been customary to bow deferentially to al-Safadi— as host and teacher—before leaving. One or two of the men did approach, for a blessing. But the others, if they glanced al-Safadi’s way, left without a goodbye. Al-Safadi said, “You see, I’m not popular today. They’re angry with me. I’m afraid our group will be in jeopardy.” Maurice wanted to ask what the group was, but hesitated. The protocols of privacy were so different here, but he could always hide behind his American ways. He said, “What is it about? “Oh. I’m afraid it would be a bit obscure for you.” “I didn’t mean to pry.” “No, no. It’s just that . . . I have been much influenced by Khan Abdul Gaffar Khan and he’s not much known in the West.” “No. I’m afraid I haven’t heard about him.” “He was a great thinker, a friend of Ghandi’s. He found a way to join Ghandi’s thought with Islam. His group, Khudai Khidmatgar, 138

is now forgotten, even in India and Pakistan and the Northwest Territories where it began and especially here in Tunisia. I was trying to start it again here. I am afraid after today that I’ve failed.” Maurice said, “Ghandi! He was a big influence on me. In my student days. I suppose he still is.” “Yes. He is a pivotal figure, for his culture as well as yours and mine. But I am afraid it was another time.” Maurice looked around for Nidhal, but he had disappeared into the back of the house. He glanced over at al-Safadi and saw, indeed, that he was upset. In his senior year at Columbia, the year of the strike, he had joined a Ghandian student group. Now that he was a teacher, on the other side of the fence, he had not thought much about those protest years. Could it all become relevant again? AlSafadi’s face was sensitive, intelligent. He had seen pain cross it a number of times, ascribed to his infirmity. But perhaps it was something more interior? In a room of bearded men, it struck him that alSafadi was not bearded. There was a shadow, so he shaved. Perhaps he was not conforming? Not Fundamentalist? Nothing Ghandian was conformist. Al-Safadi’s word “pivotal” flashed through his mind. It made him wonder, Had a door drifted ajar? Was there an opening for him, here? Maurice said, “I was involved in Ghandian politics when I was a student. If I were to be around more I’d like to join your group.” “You mean if there is a group after today. They are too angry with me now, but perhaps they will calm down. They say they want to hear what I have to say, but when I don’t say what they want to hear they turn against me. I suppose it is one of the characteristics of youth.” Maurice laughed, “What did you say to them?” “It was what I refused to say. To validate their violence. I’m afraid this situation brings out the worst in men.” “Situation? You mean the demonstration?” “Yes. One of the demonstrators was killed you know, we think by the police. A friend of theirs. A former student of mine, too.” “Oh, I’m sorry. No. I hadn’t heard. I read the local newspapers every day, but I didn’t see anything in them about a boy dying.” 139

Al-Safadi said impatiently, “But you wouldn’t. They hush up the press. They think criticism is treason. We are expected to be loyal. Absolutely loyal. It is the way of the desert clans. We are a society of tribes and clans. A desert or tribal democracy, communal democracy with one strong leader. A strong leader not accountable to the people. If it is democracy at all.” “Was the boy a member of your group?” “No. I wish he were. Things might have been different. He was a student. A boy of good character. But he was hot-headed. Passionate. And now . . .” He shook his head, as if in disbelief. “Yes, they are very angry. It will come to no good.” “But a friend of theirs was killed. They have a right to be angry.” “Oh yes. They have every right to be angry. But I am afraid it will go further than being angry. They talk of revenge.” “Are you sure the police were responsible?” “Someone saw him being clubbed. They seem to have singled him out. Killed him deliberately to make an example of him.” Maurice did not understand the circumstances, and said, “Perhaps this makes your group more relevant. Of course, I don’t really know what’s going on, but perhaps you should try again, have another meeting. If I’m still here I would like to join.” “Of course I won’t give up just like that. I will try again. You could give us a talk. Your experiences in the American movement. That would be a good excuse to reconvene.” “Well, yes, I suppose I could. Especially if it would help.” “I don’t know. We shall have to see. But here is Nidhal. I sent him to get tea for you.” Nidhal was walking slowly back into the room, carefully holding a glass of tea at the top and bottom between two fingers, as the center would have been very hot. He handed it to Maurice so that Maurice could also take it by the top and bottom and went to sit next to al-Safadi. Or rather curl on his side, his legs tucked under him. The gandoura fell off his shoulder. His native dress made him more attractive because the clothing did not suppress his body, but brought it forward with hints and suggestions, the open neck, the bared 140

shoulder, nipple or ankle, suggestions of nudity. It made him seem open, accessible; it compensated for the deaf-muteness that often made him seem so inaccessible. Perhaps because he had noted alSafadi’s lack of beard, he took note of the lack of Nidhal’s facial hair, or body or pubic hair, as he knew from their swimming days. He asked al-Safadi, “Nidhal says that he is fifteen, but I don’t think he is. Do you know how old he is?” “Yes. He is thirteen. Just, in fact.” “He told me he was fifteen.” “Oh, this is not exactly a lie. You see, all the boys say they are fifteen when you ask them. In Islamic law this is known as al-bulugh or Tamyeez, the coming of age. I suppose they teach each other that this is the right answer.” “Why the right answer?” “When a boy is fifteen here he comes of age, becomes responsible, a man. A boy is vulnerable here. He can be used. But a man, you cannot tamper with a man. It makes his life more clear cut. His role, you would say. At least with strangers. His family will know the truth, of course. Do you want to meet his father?” The question was slipped in so easily he was not sure he heard it correctly. “Meet his father? Of course I would.” Al-Safadi made some hand gestures to Nidhal and Nidhal nodded. “You must be making progress. He does not object.” He gestured again. Nidhal rose and crossed the room. Maurice turned to see him approach the same elderly man, now seated at the back of the room reading a book, perhaps a Koran. He put it down and came over. Al-Safadi gestured to a pillow by his side and the man sat. Al-Safadi said, “Ahmed Ben Salah. Maurice Burke.” Maurice came close to showing anger, though he stood and shook hands. All this time his father was simply there, in the mosque, every day. All this time he could have been finding out more about the boy. 141

Ben Salah could not have been more than five foot, thin and pale. Maurice towered over him. Was he ill? His graying hair and beard were close cropped, his face deeply lined. Perhaps in his late fifties or even sixties. Nidhal had a younger sister; he had learned that from al-Safadi. His father must have married or remarried a younger woman. Nidhal moved his cushion next to his father. Nidhal’s father said, “You are the man who has taken an interest in my son. Let me offer my thanks.” “I’ve been wanting to meet you, but there’s no need to thank me. I haven’t really done that much.” “You have been kind. That is already enough.” “Nothing really. I’ve taken Nidhal swimming a few times, bought him meals. I wish I could do more.” “He likes you, I think.” He turned to Nidhal and touched his head. “You should be proud of your son. He’s very intelligent . . . even gifted. I’ve seen some of his Arabic word drawings and they show talent.” “Yes. They are good. The iman is a good teacher.” “I understand that he’s not getting any special schooling?” “No.” “He really should. His lettering. It’s something he seems to like doing.” Maurice was also addressing al-Safadi. “He might make a craft of it, don’t you think? A trade. Something for the future?” Ben Salah said, “Why?” “Why? I don’t understand. I suppose it would make him more independent for one thing.” “No. I mean, why are you interested in my son’s future?” Maurice saw that al-Safadi was not going to interfere with the conversation. “Well, I suppose I’d like to help him in some way. With your permission. So long as you don’t think I’m interfering.” Nidhal’s father said, “Why? Are you Muslim?” “No. I’m not. I’m Catholic.” “Then how can you help him?” 142

“I thought. Well, perhaps he could have better schooling.” Ben Salah said, “Will you take him on the hajj? Will you pray five times a day with him?” “Well, I don’t know. No, I don’t suppose I will. I guess that’s not what I meant. I think I can help in other ways. As I said, with his education for example. I could send you the fees for a special school. Or send it to al-Safadi for him. For the family.” Ben Salah said, “You are indeed kind.” But Maurice was not sure whether he meant it ironically, if not sarcastically, and said, “I’d like to meet his mother. And his sister. Get to know his family. Try to understand. Perhaps visit your home.” “It is not a good time. Our youngest child is sick.” “But if you need something.” “God provides.” “Yes. Of course. But if she needs medicine. Or if Nidhal needs things. Clothes. I take him swimming, but I think he needs more than this. I thought I could take him shopping. If that’s all right with you.” Ben Salah looked at al-Safadi first, who did not make clear in any way what he thought, and replied, “I do not want him to take things from strangers. You are a guest in our land. It is for us to give you hospitality. Has he asked you?” “Oh no. He’s never asked for anything. It’s not what I meant. If you don’t want me to I won’t.” “He’s a stubborn boy with a will of his own and now that you have mentioned it he will want you to buy things for him even if I do not agree.” Maurice felt frustrated. “Well, I’ve already bought him a bathing suit. May I at least take him swimming or to dinner?” Ben Salah nodded. Maurice added, “I don’t want to be just a guest, a stranger. I want to be a friend, to help.” But even as he said it he realized it sounded pretentious, perhaps because he was defensive. He said, “If you don’t want me to buy him anything perhaps I can do small things instead, take him on day trips, to museums and ruins. I think he might like seeing something different.” 143

Nidhal must have also understood some of what Maurice was proposing because he tugged vigorously at his father’s sleeve. Al-Safadi exchanged some words in Arabic with Nidhal’s father and Ben Salah nodded agreement. Al-Safadi said to Maurice, “It is a good idea for Nidhal to be out of Sousse a bit and away from certain influences, so long as he is home at night.” Maurice said, “Yes, of course. I have a friend in Sidi. An Englishman. We might go there for the day, but I would have him home by nine. Would that be all right?” Ben Salah said, “Yes.” He stood and Maurice stood with him. “I must do work now.” Maurice said, “I’m glad we had a chance to meet.” His grasp was firm and he walked away quickly, energetically, yet there was something gray about him and depressive. He did not wear his responsibilities lightly. He had shown some affection for his son but was also absorbed in his own concerns, or they had absorbed him. Maurice could not say he understood the implications of his vague impressions. Nidhal’s independence, indeed his aloneness, had always seemed more than the isolation of his condition, or did Maurice only want it to be more? He was only scratching the surface, but, at least, he had scratched the surface. Maurice said to al-Safadi. “I should go too. What time is it anyway? I think Nidhal must be hungry.” Al-Safadi suggested that they leave the medina by the back way, in case there was still tension in the town. Maurice asked, “Will you be in Sousse this week?” “Yes, I’ll be here.” “Then we’ll see each other soon?” “Yes. Inshallah.” Maurice smiled, “Yes, Inshallah. And you’ll let me know if you want me to give that talk? I’ll need time to prepare it.” “I will let you know.” As he and Nidhal were making their way through back streets to one of the northern medina gates and the taxi ranks Maurice was 144

already planning his phone call to Dobbs to see if they could go there tomorrow. Perhaps Dobbs could shed some light on all these groups and political events, and advise about a plan that was vaguely beginning to form in his mind about Nidhal, now tugging at his sleeve and making more of those awkward swimming motions of his. Maurice shook his head and pointed to his watch. It was getting on toward seven and he was famished. They could leave swimming for another day.

When he returned to the hotel later that evening and asked at the desk for his messages, he was handed a fax from Eddie: “your escapade has made Henri furious, just as I thought it would. He told me he was ‘mystified’ because you were ‘acting out of character,’ whatever that’s supposed to mean, unless he means your usual scruples about fulfilling obligations. He obviously thinks it’s something serious because he mentioned twice flying on down there. . . . I don’t know why he’s so head-up about your staying on in Sousse, unless there’s something going on I don’t know about, but, for my sake at least, please call him asap and work it out, will you. I guess he was pretty set on fixing you up with this Guy what’s his name and you know his tsunami will. It won’t kill you to humor him, darling . . . dogs wonderfully amusing but just their old lumpen selves and nothing mystical to report . . . Helen sends hugs and xxxxxxxx along with mine.” He put down the fax and paced the floor. Henri prided himself on his ability to grasp, as it were in one blinding insight, the whole reality of someone’s situation. While subjectivity blinded us from grasping things in their totality, he could step out of himself enough to objectify the other person’s problem or crisis, a process he called distancing or detaching from ego, a discipline, he claimed, necessary for true understanding or compassion. Under a guise of concern, he used his ability to claim the moral high ground. But Maurice suspected that often it was only an exercise in power. And frustratingly difficult to contradict. Just thinking about it irritated him. He thought of phoning Henri immediately, but he was too angry. He 145

had better phone Eddie first. He looked at his watch. It was five p.m. in New York. Eddie might be walking the dogs, but he had better try anyway. He answered on the third ring. “Eddie. I’m glad you’re home. I thought you’d be out walking Minnie and Maxie. I just read your fax and was missing you.” “I’m glad you called. No, I haven’t been out of the house at all today. I’ve been working at this last chapter since this morning and can’t seem to get it right. I had the service pick up the dogs. They should be home about now. Where are you calling from?” “I’m in my hotel room.” “What’s your new room number? I don’t have it in front of me. Let me call you back.” Even the two minute wait before the phone on the night stand rang made Maurice pace. Eddie said, “Are you all right? You sound upset.” “No, I’m not upset. I just read your fax and it made me miss you.” “You’re still coming on Wednesday aren’t you?” “I don’t know. Would you be angry if I stayed a couple of extra days?” “Well, no, not really. There’s nothing much going on here and I’m spending every minute trying to finish the book.” “You’re sure?” “I did suggest it myself when we talked the last time. I could use the time to concentrate. I haven’t been seeing anyone, except Helen for dinner. I really have to finish it so if you want to stay a few extra days it’s really all right.” “It’s just that I won’t be able to fit in all the things I want to unless I stay until Saturday. I don’t know when I’ll be getting back here again and now that I’m here I thought I should be thorough and cover all the sites worth seeing and there are really more than I expected. You’ll have to phone Peter for me to ask him if he can take my Thursday seminar. Would you mind?” “No, I don’t mind. That was my suggestion too, if you remember. I’ll call him as soon as we hang up. I can call you back if you like.” 146

“Would you? It would take a load off my mind.” “Do you want me to do it now?” “No. Let’s talk first.” “You got my fax then. . . . So, did you call Henri?” “No, not yet. I just got in. I was out most of the day and wanted to talk to you first. Really you shouldn’t pay any attention to him. You know how he is. I’m really not interested in this Guy. He’s not at all my type. He’s just making all of it up, you know.” “I know. But he did sound upset with you. After all, he went through a lot of trouble to organize that dinner party especially for you and then you go and stand him up. It’s understandable.” “But I talked to him about it and he said he wasn’t upset.” “Well, he is. And what’s all this about his flying on down there anyway?” “What did he say exactly?” “Oh, I don’t know. I can’t remember his exact words. Something about harboring mysteries.” “Harboring mysteries. Did he say that? Well, I’m not. Just stirring up the pot again, that’s all.” “Well, the thought did cross my mind that you were having an affair and trying to spare my feelings.” “No. I’m not having an affair. God, that Henri is exasperating. I don’t know why you listen to him. I mean, it’s practically Monday and I haven’t done any of the things I wanted to do for myself. Get up to see the ruins in Dougga. Or the desert. I want to add Kairouan, too. After all, it’s the fourth sacred city in Islam and I’m less than an hour away. All I’ve had time for is the conference. Work, work, work. It’s all I ever do. I just need a break, that’s all.” “Well, all right.” “You don’t sound convinced.” “I don’t know. To tell you the truth you’re sounding a bit defensive.” “I’m not defensive. I just don’t want there to be a misunderstanding. You know how I loathe the telephones. Especially for anything important.” 147

“Important? What do you mean ‘important’? And ‘misunderstanding’? Why would there be a misunderstanding?” “Nothing. I didn’t mean anything. We can discuss it when I’m home.” “Discuss it when you’re home! Oh shit, there is something. Oh no, you haven’t. I bet you have. You’ve gone and told Henri something you haven’t told me. Haven’t you!” “No, well . . .” “Honestly, Maurice, you know how Henri is. How could you do that? I was wondering why he was beating around the bush like that. Now I know what it was all about. He was trying to find out if I knew what he knew. How could you!” “Eddie . . .” “You know how complicated he is and what games he can play.” “Please, Eddie! Will you calm down and let me say something.” “Say something! I knew it. I knew it all along. You’ve fucking fallen in love with someone and went and told Henri all about it while here I am . . .” “Eddie! Stop. I did meet this boy but . . .” “So I’m right.” “Please. It’s not what you think. I did meet this boy, a deaf-mute boy. On the beach my first morning here.” “A deaf-mute boy.” “Yes. He’s under the wing of some sort of iman or other. But I met his father today.” “His father? For God’s sake how old is he?” “He says he’s fifteen, but I think he’s thirteen, and well . . . I’m thinking of becoming his guardian.” “Guardian! Oh, so I suppose that’s what Henri’s little game was all about. You told him about this mad scheme of yours, didn’t you? So you are fucking him. This boy, what’s his name? So, are you?” “Nidhal. His name is Nidhal. And no, I’m not fucking him. It’s nothing like that at all. If I could adopt him I would, but I don’t know the laws.”

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“Adopt! Without discussing it with me? Jesus Christ! You’ve gone completely mad. Stark raving mad. I don’t know what to say.” “Eddie, please listen. I used the word ‘adopt’ to try to give you an idea of what was really going on. I didn’t mean it literally. Will you just listen?” “All right, what then?” “It’s not what you think. He’s very bright. I was going to ask his father if there was some way to send money for him every month. I know there’s something bad going on in his life. I don’t know for sure what it is, but I know he’s in some kind of trouble. There’re these awful bruises on his body I see when I take him swimming. I’ve got to do something for him. I can’t just leave him here like this. I was going to discuss all of it with you as soon as I was home. I wouldn’t have done anything without talking to you.” “But Maurice, that’s not the point. The point is you discussed it with fucking Henri and not me. And the father! What kind of a father is he? I mean what does he say about your adopting his son.” “Not adopt.” “Well guardian, or whatever you want to call it.” “I haven’t asked him yet. It’s another reason why I want to stay. I have to see this through.” “You haven’t asked him. But Maurice. Can’t his parents have you arrested? For abduction? Stealing their son’s affections or something?” “Don’t be silly. Of course not. Why would they do that? He’s sweet and vulnerable and sensitive. I can’t just leave him here like this.” “Can’t leave him there like that! You mean you want to bring him back here?” “No. Wait . . .” “How could you even think about bringing a child here under the circumstances. This is no environment for raising a child with doctors and medicines, all my infections and problems. What kind of an atmosphere is that for child?” “No. I don’t know. Please, Eddie. I’m getting confused. Not bring him back there. That’s not what I meant. You see what I meant about

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the telephone? I’m trying to find some way of helping him here. I mean here. This iman, I think he’s a Sufi. Al-Safadi. He’s helping to take care of him too. I’m trying to coordinate things with him. Perhaps visit him now and then to make sure he’s all right. Send money for him. To the iman. Or his father. I’m sure I can find a way.” Eddie interrupted, “Maurice, stop. Just stop. None of this seems real to me. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about any of it, or what I think right now. I need some time to think it all over. If it matters to you what I think or feel.” “Of course it matters. I was going to tell you when I got back. If it hadn’t been for Henri. I mean, I don’t know if any of this is going to happen and is realistic either. I may have to drop the whole idea. So what was the sense of telling you anything if none of it happened.” “We always share everything. It’s our rule. Our fucking rule! And this business about visiting archaeological sites? Was all that a pack of lies?” “No. Of course it wasn’t. I know you’re angry . . .” “Angry! Of course I’m angry! You kept secrets with Henri! I can’t believe you’d do that, not about something as important as this. And Henri! Being coy about it all. Wait until I talk to him! I feel like throwing this fucking book in the fucking Hudson!” Maurice said, “You shouldn’t say anything to Henri. I’ll work it out with him. I don’t want you to put your relationship with him in jeopardy.” “Oh yes, now you’re trying to spare my feelings. I wonder why I don’t believe it. Fucking some thirteen-year-old in North Africa. Well, at least you can’t hide behind the priest thing. Spare me that this time.” “What do you mean this time! And I told you, I’m not fucking Nidhal.” “Oh yes, I suppose you’re being altruistic and noble? Why can’t I believe it?” “Believe what you like! He struck a chord in me, an instinct.” “Instinct. He’s got you wrapped right around his little finger, the

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conniving little bastard. Are you really only planning to stay until Saturday, or was that another lie?” “I don’t know.” There was a long silence before Eddie answered, “Do what you have to do, Maurice. You will anyway.” The energy drained from his voice. “If that’s what you want, do what you have to do.” “Please don’t get depressed. There’s no need. If you want me home on Wednesday I’ll change my flights again.” “Again. Just listen to yourself. Now you’re saying you changed your flights without consulting me. I don’t know what else to say. I need to think about it all. I don’t know what I feel right now. I don’t know if I’m more upset with you for not confiding in me or for going to Henri first. That’s nigh on treason. And as for the boy. I can tell you right now I don’t want you to bring him here. Do you hear? I don’t want him here. I don’t know. Maybe it’s my fault. I’m so caught up in myself. This fucking plague! It’s fucking up our lives, isn’t it. Maybe it’s all my fault.” “Please, Eddie. Don’t start. It’s not you. It’s just something I need to do. Have this time for myself. See this thing through. That’s all that’s going on really. It doesn’t really affect us. Not in the long run. Not even in the short. You’ll see. When I’m back I’m sure I can make it all clear to you.” “Whatever, Maurice, whatever . . .”

Maurice paced the floor, in a rage with himself and Henri. He felt duped, trapped into his conversation with Eddie by the Frenchman’s wiles. If Henri had not dropped hints that raised Eddie’s suspicions, he might have avoided what had just transpired. Nothing might come of this guardianship business. He might never have said anything. He picked up Eddie’s fax again: “your escapade has made Henri furious.” He went out onto the balcony. The soft, warm night, the rustle of palm trees and sound of the sea calmed him down. It was his own fault. He knew how manipulative Henri could be. Or was he being sincere? Was he genuinely worried about him, and

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Eddie? Doubt raised its hydra head. He went back inside to phone Henri. The long, drawn moan, “Hellllooooo. Oui?” “Henri, Maurice here. I’m glad I found you in. I was just talking to Eddie.” “Ah, Maurice. I was expecting your call. I’ve been very worried about you, you know, and today I went to my travel man to see about flights there. We’ve had days of rain in Paris and I could use a break. I even called the Review this morning and said I had an idea for an article about Tunisia and could they come up with a little money and they are looking into it. But then, I’ve had one of my migraines again, so . . . well, I’m afraid I took to my bed like one of my old aunts and put you out of my mind.” “I’m sorry to hear they’re back. Do you want me to call some other time?” “No. The medicine makes my speech a bit slow, but I’ve sent everyone away so I don’t mind having your company on the telephone.” “You’re sure, then?” “I want to know about your situation. This boy. How is it going? This adventure of yours. I hope you’re not in over your head by now.” “You’re being sarcastic?” “I don’t think I’m capable of nuances today. I know North Africa and you don’t. That’s all I meant to say.” “Over my head?” “If you’re going to be defensive, we should talk another time. I really don’t feel so well. But yes, over your head. You go there for a conference. You hate it when you arrive. You plan to leave immediately. Then you meet a boy. And now, the conference is closed, you’re still there. It’s all very strange you know.” “Not really.” “Oh, but it is. After all, you’re the most responsible person I know. I would say scrupulously responsible. Yet, there you are, getting a little . . . carried away. Are you really going back to New York Wednesday?” 152

“Well, no.” “No, of course not. How could you. I’m afraid you have Arab fever. It’s a well known reaction. Of the Westerner to Muslim countries. The English especially were very susceptible. T. E. Lawrence. Burton. But you were in Morocco at Volubilis on digs. How long?” “Three two-month stretches.” “And you never had these . . . well, symptoms before?” “I’m not sure I like this described as a disease, but, no, I never had these symptoms.” “Well, you are in love, Maurice. I’m afraid you must be. And of course that complicates it all the more.” “I’m not in love with him.” “No, no. I don’t mean with the boy. Or at least not just with him. I mean with everything. You’ve fallen in love with it all, I’m afraid.” “No. That’s ridiculous.” “Is it so ridiculous?” “Yes. I’m afraid so. I’m just not.” “No. Of course not. And Eddie? Have you at least told him that you’re staying longer and have this boy.” “Yes. I told him. He knows everything.” “And?” “He understands it’s something I need to do. Have this time for myself.” “So what are your plans?” “My plans? I don’t know. I met Nidhal’s father today. I’ll try to make some arrangements. Play it by ear.” “And stay longer?” “Yes.” “As long as need be, perhaps?’ “I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead.” “You’ll stay for him? To see if you can help him?” “Well, yes.” “But only for him?” “No. I don’t know. These last few days I’ve been feeling in touch with myself again. After years of not seeing myself, I am again.” 153

“Because of Eddie?” “No. Absolutely not. It’s absolutely not because of him. It’s because of me. Something I’ve been neglecting. I don’t blame anything on him. But now I feel as if I were on my own ground again looking at myself again.” “How long will this take?” “How long?” “Yes. That is an issue, isn’t it? What you are talking about . . . seeing yourself . . . this takes a lifetime, doesn’t it? But what I was talking about was what do you hope to accomplish there now, in the here and now?” “I don’t know. I have to stay until I find out. I suppose that’s the truth.” “You mean indefinitely?” “No, not indefinitely. Certainly until Saturday.” “And longer if need be?” “I don’t know. Probably not.” “But you’re not sure.” “No.” Henri said, “You know I don’t believe in seeing things through to their end. That is too much of a loss of freedom.” “I didn’t say that. I said I didn’t know, that I was playing it by ear, that I would stay at least until the end of the week and then see how I feel. That’s all.” “And if it takes a month to find out what you have to find out? Are you ready to stay another month? Or two months?” “I can’t give up my job. Columbia. That would be ridiculous.” “Can’t you? And why not? After all, you are in love and that is very powerful.” “I don’t know. I tell you, I haven’t gotten that far. And in any case, I’m not in love.” “Then what do you think? What do you really think?” “What do I think? I don’t know. I don’t have any answers. Just that I can’t go back yet, not without any answers. At least not today.” “Or tomorrow.” 154

“No. Not tomorrow.” Henri said, “I want to meet him. Your Nidhal. And this iman you speak of too. I want to meet both of them. Yes. I think I should come. Perhaps, if my headache is gone . . . tomorrow as you say, play it by ear.” “No, Henri, don’t come. I don’t want you to come. In fact, I don’t think you will come.” “And why not?” “I think you know why. I think you know I have to do this myself and you can’t be part of it. Even if you were here you couldn’t be part of it.”

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he taxi deposited them in the middle of Sidi, at the top of a stairway leading down to the sea, as to the sacred waters; the ghats in Benares or baptismal pools in ancient churches. Dobbs had given him his address, but no instructions on how to find it. The town was small and compact, and they were early enough to wend there way slowly. He took Nidhal’s hand and they went into a café. Did he want something to drink? Was he nervous? A yes and a no. Maurice had learned enough hand signs to make it easier now to communicate, and to read the boy’s expressions and moods. At first he had felt awkward coordinating hands with thoughts, but now he liked it, felt more Italian or Spanish, more generally expressive. He made the signs for swimming and pointed at the sea. The boy laughed, those odd, nervous bursts of his. He looked handsome today. Maurice had taken him for a haircut. The barbershop was in the medina and full of men and boys. Maurice liked the atmosphere, the joking, the comments. Nidhal wore a short sleeve white shirt and gray gabardine slacks, a style out of the early fifties, an inch too short,

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hand-me-downs, perhaps even from his father’s youth. But they hugged his body attractively. They stopped several people until they found a young woman who knew Dobbs’s street. It was in a section more elegant than some of the other residential areas. There was no sidewalk; the houses faced directly on the street. Sidi was famous for its blue doors and shutters, a bright blue that was startling in contrast to the whitewashed walls. It was confusing. They found the street but there were no numbers, and blue door after blue door. Behind low, whitewashed garden walls fountains echoed. The day was warm. The air smelled of jasmine and oleander. He had heard that if you burned oleander the smoke could poison you, and he wondered if it were true. Tall palms, resting huge trunks against walls, drooped over the road. It was very quiet, no interior house noises, no anachronistic pop music. Traffic noises were distant. A plane flew low over the sea preparing its run to Tunis airport. He thought of shouting Dobbs’s name, but that would not do. An old man shuffled toward them. Did he know where the Englishman lived? The man pointed to a large two-story building at the next corner. All the shutters were closed tight. He could not find a bell, but there was a black metal knocker. Nidhal squeezed his hand. A Tunisian youth opened the door. He wore a white apron on which he was wiping his hands. “You must be Maurice and Nidhal. I am Rashid. David is expecting you.” His hands were cold, from being rinsed. “Please come in.” He stepped aside to allow them to pass. “I am cooking but I will join you in a few minutes.” Dobbs had not mentioned Rashid, but then he wouldn’t, would he? The magnet drawing him back to Sidi? The boy led him down a tiled hallway, cool, elegant, a Louis XIV console table against one wall, a Chippendale chair on another, a large gold Baroque mirror on one wall, a nineteenth-century Orientalist watercolor on the other, a hodgepodge that somehow worked. Dobbs was sitting on a Western style sofa reading. Double doors were open onto an interior

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garden. The house was fragrant with tropical flowers, from the garden and from fresh-cut free freesia on the coffee table; there was the sound of a fountain and caged canaries and finches. Dobbs closed his book and rose to greet them. “So. I see you found me. And this must be Nidhal. You’ve met Rashid I see. Please sit down. The sofa is very comfortable. Did you have trouble finding us?” Dobbs took his book and went to an easy chair, giving the sofa to Maurice and Nidhal. The boy pressed against him shyly; intimidated? Maurice squeezed his hand. Maurice said, “It was easy to find. I just asked someone on the street for the Englishman.” “You asked for the Englishman! Oh that is a good one. Actually, there are three of us along here. You might very well have gotten the British Ambassador. Would you or the boy like something to drink?” “We were a little early so we had something to drink in a café.” But he turned to Nidhal and made the sign for drink; Nidhal shook his head no. “I say. You’ve actually learned some sign language.” “Just a few.” “Is he going to a special school? You didn’t tell me much on the phone. He seems very bright.” “No. I’ve been asking about the possibility.” Nidhal made a flurry of signs. Maurice said, “He’s impressed by your house. . . . Oh, I see. The scimitar on the hallway wall. That seems to have impressed him the most.” Nidhal made a few, shy, sword gestures. Dobbs said, “He has good taste. It’s seventeenth-century. I’ll show you both around the house later. My friend’s family built it. They’re prominent lawyers and judges.” There was a large table at one end, cluttered with school books, papers, a laptop computer. Maurice said, “It’s a nice room to write in. You must find it peaceful.” “Oh, that’s Rashid’s homework. He’s a law student. My friend was one of his professors, at Tunis University law faculty.” 158

“Is that how you met?” “I was giving a lecture to one of my friend’s classes and he asked some very intelligent questions afterwards, so I invited him to dinner. Must have been three years ago already. Can the boy lip read Arabic? We can have Rashid show him around the house. There’s a glass case in the study, with rare pistols and cutlasses. He might like that.” “Yes, I think he would.” “I’ll see if Rashid can take a break from cooking.” Dobbs went out of the room for a moment and returned with Rashid. He had removed the apron, his hands thrust sexily into his jeans. Henri would have said “something of a catch.” Nidhal glanced at Maurice and Maurice nodded. When they had left Dobbs said, “Perhaps you’d like a drink? I have some first-rate scotch and bourbon. Rather hard to come by here, you know. Or white wine, if you prefer. There’s some chilled. I’ll bring it in for us.” Maurice went to the open doors onto the garden. A colonnade ran along the opposite side, and suddenly Rashid and Nidhal appeared in a doorway, laughed and waved. He was happy he had come, with Nidhal. The garden was well tended. There must be a gardener, unless it was Dobbs’s hobby, like some Englishmen who could know more about the subject than an expert. Dobbs said, “A wonderful garden, isn’t it.” “Yes. Do you tend it?” “I potter a bit, but there’s a gardener comes in mornings. There’s more at the back. I’ll show it all to you later.” “It’s wonderfully peaceful.” “Yes. We have it all to ourselves right now. My friends are on holiday. Skiing, you see. The attraction of opposites. Snow and skis for them, sun and beach for me. And Rashid. It works out rather well. Do sit down though. It will be a while before lunch. Rashid has been working all morning preparing something traditional for us. But it won’t be ready for an hour or two. If you’re hungry now I can ask him to bring something light to tide you over?” 159

“No. I’m fine.” “You’re not still on your schedule, are you? Now that the conference is over. I mean, you don’t have to rush back to Sousse for anything? Or the boy? You’re welcome to stay the night if you like.” “I promised to have Nidhal back by nine.” “Can’t you phone? There’s all sort of guest rooms.” “No, not really. I promised.” “He seems like a sweet boy. You can tell Tunisian boys of good character, you know. Their gaze is more naturally direct, his especially. He doesn’t look aside; isn’t hiding ulterior motives. He seems happy with you.” “Do you think so?” “Certainly. He’s glued to your side.” “I suppose so.” “You seem happier too. Even your appearance has changed.” “My appearance?” “Yes. You’ve lost at least ten pounds, and you’re quite brown and fit looking. Relaxed. It suits you. Are you more at home here now?” “I’ve been walking every day. Avoiding taxis. Swimming with Nidhal. But I’m not quite sure I feel at home yet.” “Oh you mean you haven’t arrived ?” “Arrived?” “It’s just something we used to say about being in foreign places when I was young. One doesn’t hear it much anymore. . . . Have you?” “Scratched the surface perhaps. The surface layer here is very hard, very difficult to get through. I might have gone away hating it.” “But you think you’ve broken through? Because of the boy?” “Partly. . . . And you? Do you feel at home here?” “Well, yes, I suppose I do. I can’t bear to be a stranger in a strange land. It’s unbearable to me. Of course, I don’t feel at home in the same way I do when I’m in Oxford. I feel at home there too. Some people can’t find all they need in one place. They need two places, or constant travel, which doesn’t suit me. The old cliché is that we have to feel at home with ourselves and then we can feel at home anywhere, 160

but I think it takes more than that for some of us. Perhaps you’re like that?” “I don’t know. I think I still see myself as a visitor, and am working out the rest.” “To tell you the truth I didn’t think you would ever get to like it here no less feel at home.” “Why not?” “Why, you positively hated it at first.” “I suppose I did. I suppose I still hate the things I first hated. But there turned out to be more.” “Yes, there is more. I may also have misread you.” “How so?” “Your reactions might have been an emotional engagement, a way of involving yourself immediately by having emotional reactions. At least, that’s what they seem to be after the fact.” “Perhaps. But I really didn’t like it at first. That was genuine.” “And you changed your mind?” “No, not exactly. I still hate the things I hated. I’m not exactly sure what happened. Perhaps a series of shocks. . . . I don’t know.” Laughter echoed across the garden, Nidhal’s staccato and a deeper, bass laugh. Dobbs said, “I saw the two of you on the beach once. You seemed very happy, and that was days ago.” Maurice was not sure he liked Dobbs saying that, but politely said, “Yes, I know you did. I suppose I was.” “And now you’re staying longer.” “Yes. I want to try to settle some things for Nidhal. In fact, I might ask you your advice, if you don’t mind. I’ve been considering guardianship.” “Guardianship? Do you mean should you do it? I’m afraid I couldn’t answer that.” “I was thinking more of the legalities.” “In that case, I’m not the person to ask. Rashid is. If he doesn’t know the law he’ll feel challenged to find out for you. Throw himself right into it. Probably end up writing a paper about it.” 161

And at lunch, as they were assembled around the table, Dobbs brought up the subject with Rashid for him. He did not know too much. There was the matter of parental consent. Written documents. One had to go to the proper authorities to arrange it. With a few bribes it might be done in a few weeks. But yes, it was almost certainly possible under Tunisian law, but, of course, there was also the matter of American law. Dobbs had placed himself opposite Rashid, and Maurice opposite Nidhal. He might have arranged it differently, with Nidhal opposite Rashid, for the Arabic, but Dobbs seemed to have thought in terms of couples, which amused him. He smiled at Nidhal. The boy did seem happy today, at ease now in new surroundings. And an odd fact suddenly struck Maurice. He had never sat opposite Nidhal. They had eaten any number of times together, but this was the first time they had been opposite each other over a meal. The other occasions were in fast food restaurants, seated next to him at various counters, or sitting next to each other on the beach sharing a takeout lunch. The table was small, exaggerating their closeness. He could easily have touched Nidhal’s foot with his. Rashid had carried the meal out into the garden for them, set in the shade under an oleander tree and near the fountain; he had covered it with a white linen cloth, which he whisked off dramatically, the couscous and lamb produced by magic, perhaps. There was a shallow bowl with a single red gardenia floating in it. The glasses were crystal, the dishes of fine porcelain. Nidhal seemed uncertain about the silverware. He waited each time for Maurice to act before lifting the correct fork, switching it to his left hand to work it with his knife, European fashion, imitating each of his gestures. Yet, Nidhal seemed self-confident in unfamiliar surroundings. He might have been less self-reliant, less self-assured. His glances questioned Maurice’s stares, passed over his face, returned, lingered, an eyebrow raised, taking stock, forming impressions, impatient, put out, perhaps, for Maurice’s intrusiveness, wanting an answer, a response. His eyes ranged over the garden, up at the branch of a tree where a yellow finch had just perched, then returned to Maurice’s 162

face, took stock again, trustingly, taking him in as well as the surroundings, not attempting to communicate through any of his known signs. Nidhal had a huge amount of food on his plate, couscous and lamb. Dobbs leaned over teasingly to add one more spoon full to his plate. Before he began to eat he looked down at the food, assessing it, smelling it, being drawn into it. As he ate, his face flushed and relaxed, his lips blossomed. He started squirming in his seat, leaning forward, his breathing rapid. “The boy has an appetite,” Dobbs said. He hardly knew any of the rest of them were there. Sweat broke out on his forehead. A rill of sweat trickled down the side of his face into his open shirt and across his right breast as he leaned forward. A glazed look came over him. His breathing quickened. Only after taking the last bit of sauce from his plate and sipping the last of his soft drink did he push his plate back, look up at the others, and smile shyly, or sheepishly. Maurice picked up his napkin and patted the corner of his mouth, and nodded. Nidhal picked up his napkin and did the same. He should not stare at the boy. He said to Rashid that he had been caught in the riots in Sousse the other day, and someone had told him that a young man was killed. As it wasn’t in the newspapers, perhaps he knew something about it? Rashid said, “I heard that it was a Palestinian, a student in the general faculty.” Maurice said, “Yes. I’ve heard the same.” Dobbs suddenly pushed himself back from the table. Upset, he interrupted. “Can’t we could talk about something more pleasant at the dinner table.” Rashid said, “David hates politics.” Dobbs said, “I don’t hate politics. But what’s the sense of talking about it when it only makes you angry and difficult?” He turned to Maurice and said haughtily, “As foreigners we should keep our noses out of their politics. Don’t you think so, Burke?” Maurice said, “Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I thought Rashid might know him as they were both at the university.” 163

“David. We are among friends, after all. Most of it is common knowledge anyway. I didn’t know him personally but the rumor around campus is that he was involved with drugs.” Maurice asked, “So he might not have been killed by the police?” Rashid glanced at David, “Well, I am no lover of the police and they are quite capable of using the demonstration as a cover. It would have been a good opportunity in all the confusion. But at the least the rumors around are that it might also have been something else.” Maurice said, “There seem to be a lot of unemployed youths around Sousse. Some of them go around wearing green head bands, and drive black motorbikes?” “I’m afraid I don’t know. I don’t know Sousse too well. It’s not one of my favorite places.” Dobbs said, “That is an understatement. He refused to visit me there or even come for my speech.” “You have never forgiven me.” “Of course I have, my dear. But I won’t if you go in this vein any longer.”

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t took Maurice a minute or two to realize where he was: in bed, in Chedli’s apartment. The covers were thrown back and the other side of the bed was empty. A match flashed on the balcony. A cigarette? Smoking another joint? His own head still spun from the last. The smell of men’s cologne about the bedclothes was from the expensive gift Maurice had brought Chedli earlier. There was a flaky crust on his stomach. The digital clock on the night stand clicked 3:21. A segment of a dream drifted in and out of his mind. He was fleeing two sinister men wearing fedora hats, worn low on their brows and obscuring their faces. They held guns. Were they trying to kill him, frighten him? Dobbs had phoned a taxi service run by relatives of Rashid, to take them back to Sousse. Maurice was determined not to have Nidhal home late his first time out with him, so they were gone by seven, even though the drive back, under the worst of circumstances, was at most an hour and a half. Large trucks used the two-lane highway at night to transport goods. Dobbs advised that he add a little

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leeway time. But on the drive back he had had this moment of paranoia, perhaps reflected now in this dream. He had been sitting in the backseat, with Nidhal curled up against him, lulled to sleep by the regular thump of the car over divisions in the road. He was feeling happy. The visit had gone well, he had been thinking, wrapping his thin coat around the boy and himself, to shield him from the breeze from the partly open window, shifting his arm to make them both comfortable. Nidhal’s body was thin, as if the African sun had sweat away the excess fat, but it was muscular. It gave an impression of resilience. They were wedged near the door, behind the driver’s seat, to give Nidhal room to stretch out. When he was a child he had never been able to sleep on long trips to the family vacation spots, various cabins on various of the Finger Lakes, and camp sites with Native American names such as Cayuga or Owasco. It was odd to think about breechcloths and pine forests as palm trees whisked by. His mother would tell him to rest, halfheartedly threaten him to punish him if he did not, but he was too curious, too fascinated by new landscapes, by the possibility of adventure or something startling, to miss anything. Nidhal was a simpler child, a more straightforward adolescent than he had been, with all his religious and sexual doubts like wrinkles in overly spin-dried clothing, some ironed out by now. He smoothed some strands of hair back from Nidhal’s eyes and the boy squeezed closer. He slept quietly, not snoring or even breathing heavily. On those vacation trips he had played games with his sister, counting out-of-state license plates, seeing who could count the most states, or the most red cars, the most blue. He did not know the identifying marks of the licenses here. T for Tunisia? F for France? So many were covered in dust that you could not see the numbers or signs on the plates clearly, spreading the Sahara everywhere, along roads and through villages as on metal winds. A passing car had drawn even and run beside them for several hundred yards before speeding on. There were two men in the front. The passenger stared over at him as they drew even, a mustached man in his thirties wearing a white shirt and tie but no jacket; the driver leant over quickly to glance at him. And the black car sped by. 166

Had they been following them? No, that was ridiculous. The roads were regularly patrolled and they might well have been police, but not following with intention. One of the louage drivers on one of his side trips, perhaps to El Djem, had complained about the road blocks and checkpoints, though tonight they had been waved through without stopping. When they were back in Sousse, the taxi deposited them near the south end of the medina, and he found himself anxiously checking the streets. No one was lurking about and he felt a little foolish. He wanted to accompany Nidhal home but the boy became agitated, shook his head, pushed him away. Why was his house taboo? Was it closed to infidels like mosques? Were they harboring rioters, political types or criminals, perhaps one of those loutish cousins? Were they ashamed of their poverty? Suppressing dark secrets? Every family had some. The attic of his childhood home had revealed the death certificate of an older, stillborn brother about whom no one would speak. Would he ever be given access to Nidhal’s secrets? Why had he been able to find out so little? He left Nidhal at the south gate of the medina, to wend his way the rest of the way home alone, but made an arrangement first to meet him on the beach near the hotel at eight the next morning, a complicated exchange of hands and signs, for time, sand and hotel, until the boy nodded and hurried off down a twisting street. He would take him out of Sousse again today. To Kairouan. The sacred city. He had glanced around and seen that the street was empty and so he had hugged Nidhal before they had parted and Nidhal had gripped him tightly; for a second or two. 3:29 . . . 3:30 . . . Hours yet before they met. Chedli moved in front of the open balcony door; naked, slight of frame, smooth straight, lithe legs. He threw his cigarette over the balcony railing and came back inside, his cock swaying from side to side already rising. Maurice said, sitting up, “Is everything all right?” “I thought I heard shouts. It woke me up.” Had that been the simple cause of his dream? 167

“What was it?” “Drunk tourists. English footballers. There’s a game this week. I woke you up maybe? I’m sorry.” Chedli was shy when he took his clothes off. He had insisted on having the lights off, another of his constantly evolving sexual rules. But now he did not seem to notice he was naked or erect. He sat down on the edge of the bed and Maurice ran a hand over his back and arm, pulling him down. Maurice said, “You didn’t wake me. Just a dream.” “You want a another joint? I have one more. Then we fuck again?” “I have a headache from the last one. I don’t smoke much.” Eddie smoked to calm his stomach, upset by the therapy and drugs, but he seldom joined him. It “did not interest him” because he was “too rational,” Eddie said. Chedli stretched out on his back. He was better looking naked than he was dressed. His clothes made him look cheap, the rent boy type: tight shiny pants and silky tight, cheap shirts, a gold chain. But when he shed the clothing and chain in a dark room, he was lithe and sculptural, not insolent or remote. He insisted on handing Maurice the joint, and Maurice took it. “You smoke some more. Then maybe you like me . . . in you?” Maurice shook his head. Chedli had left the balcony door open, but it was warm and Maurice did not pull the sheet over them. Several dogs were barking to each other far off, perhaps in the south side of town where Nidhal would be sleeping now. The ubiquitous roar of motorbikes even at this hour rose from the coastal road and residential areas. A radio played popular Arab music too loud somewhere nearby. In one of the flats below? He could not be certain. Sounds reverberated from the limestone and concrete walls of the high-rise buildings. If it had not been for the minarets he could have imagined himself in any of those coastal Sicilian towns, Agrigento, or Cefalù. Sicilian music had an Arabic influence. Chedli was kissing the side of his face, whispering, “Why I not fuck you? You very relaxed now. I use protection.” 168

“No. I don’t like that much.” “But you not do everything for love?” He ran a hand along the boy’s smooth arm. There was just the trace of something effeminate about him; now and then he affected a queen’s lisp or flicked wrist. Was it a game, or a cultural difference? A secret preference for passive sexual acts? Maurice ran his hand down his chest, his knotted stomach. His nipples were large, rough, hard. He had a profusion of long stranded black pubic hair, so long it could be braided. His hard cock weighed heavy in his hand, warm, slick. His lips were large, moist, his tongue long and pointed, probing his mouth, exploring recesses. Chedli turned on his side, fondling him, “You have a wife home? A boyfriend maybe? A lot of Americans that come here they have boyfriends.” “Well . . . I live with someone. A man.” “You miss him?” “Yes, of course I miss him.” “Maybe I come to New York some day. Visit you. Land of the free. You get me a job maybe?” “It’s hard for immigrants to find work.” “I’m good at computers and accounts. My uncle depends on me. I am the best he’s got for renting his places. You can sponsor me maybe? You will like having me near. I am a good lover. See. When you phone me I say, ‘Of course, Maurice, I come right over and fuck you any time you want.’ You think I’m a good fuck? Many people tell me this. Men, women. They all want me. You give me your address? I write to you?” “You’ll have to learn English. No one speaks French in New York.” Chedli said in English, “No problem.” Later, he awakened abruptly in full daylight. Chedli was still sleeping. The digital clock read 8:29, and clicked 8:30. Nidhal at eight! He leapt out of bed. And Kairouan? The Great Mosque of Okba ibn Nafi, whose horse had stumbled upon the golden goblet lost in Mecca and from which the waters of Mecca flowed? 169

He threw on his clothes and rushed down to the street, without stopping for breakfast, without awakening Chedli, nor leaving him his New York address.

I

t was well past nine o’clock by the time he reached the area of the beach where he and Nidhal were to meet, at the end of the path by the little café. The attendants were already setting out the last of the beach umbrellas and reclining chairs. Some people were stretched out on towels or seated in lounge chairs. A woman rubbed suntan lotion on her legs; an obese bald man was doing Tai Chi. A group of joggers ran by; a tractor pulled a cart piled high with scuba gear. There was nearby the remnant of a wall from an unidentified derelict building. Nidhal liked to sit on that to wait, but he was not there now. Maurice walked by the break in the fence, and some bushes where you could piss unseen. But he was nowhere about. By the water’s edge he had the best vantage point. As far as he could see to north and south, he could not see Nidhal standing or walking. He stood for a while staring vacantly at a plume of smoke on the distant edge of the sea. Should he wait there? Would he come? Seek him in the town? Something must have happened. The boy would have waited an hour. He turned and went back to the hotel and checked the swings in the forbidden playground area. If no one had chased him away he might be there. If someone had chased him away he would know that he had been there. The play area was empty of children and hotel staff, and Maurice did not see him at the end of the drive, on the boardwalk into town, nor across the road at the new construction sight, where he had found him once. It was unlikely he would have gone into the hotel to wait, and if he had they would have chased him away. Maurice hurried inside through the front entrance anyway. A uniformed doorman held the door open. There were people at the counter checking in and checking out, piles of bags scattered around the lobby; that piped in music he loathed, electronic Mozart, swinging Bach. Nidhal was not there either. No, it was not like him not to 170

wait. He would have scowled when he saw Maurice, a scowl that gave him secret pleasure, at the boy’s loyalty for waiting, at the inkling of an attachment. Perhaps his father had forbidden him to come? Whatever the answer, it lay in Sousse and not here in the hotel. He would shower first, change clothes, have some breakfast, and then get himself into town, to al-Safadi. He would be there. The day was not going the way he planned, but it might go the way he wanted. He stopped at the reception desk to get his messages. Nidhal might have attempted a simple note. The clerk handed him two faxes from Eddie and one from Henri, but no note from Nidhal. As he began to walk across the courtyard to his wing he scanned the first fax from Eddie: “I feel as if I were altogether too harsh with you on the phone. Of course you need a few extra days to yourself. I guess I’m too used to having you around and when you’re not those anxieties start overwhelming me again . . . what upset me most was that I was pacing myself against your return. I’ve been doing all right with you away, but had it fixed in my mind that on a certain date you would be here again, and now I have to readjust my thinking again . . . insecure . . . uncertain . . . we’re so connected. . . . And this boy! I can see that we’re going to have to make some difficult emotional adjustments in our relationship. I can’t go around taking your support for granted every moment of the day. . . . You’ve got to be more open about your needs. You never mentioned needing to be on your own. . . . It’s hard to believe this adoption thing just popped up out of the blue . . . keeping secrets. . . . You must have been thinking about this before.” Eddie’s second fax continued the confusion and wavering between contrition and blame. “Ignore my first fax . . . stay as long as you like. . . . Are you sure you don’t want Henri to come down there? . . . I’m really all right. Just a few sleepless nights.” A few sleepless nights! There must also have been further conversations with Henri. He stopped in the courtyard of his wing to sit by the fountain and interior garden. Birds flitted in and out, swallows, yellow and blue budgies. Henri might be stoking Eddie’s mood shifts. By insisting on 171

his coming to Sousse he was turning his staying into a heightened drama. He turned to Henri’s fax with annoyance. “Eddie was really wrong to say I was angry with you, because I’m more concerned than angry. . . . Someone so rational . . . giving in to the famous moods of the Maghreb . . . form of temporary insanity. . . . I know you don’t want an interfering old Queen on your doorstep but I really think I should come there. . . . Permit me the excuse of taking a break from Paris. . . . If you must have this boy then I suppose it is better to have it there where the culture looks the other way than in New York where even a sexual hint has to be suppressed not to mention anything overt.” All three faxes annoyed him, and he crumbled up all of them. He needed time to collect his thoughts, change. Shower off Chedli’s new cologne? Now that he had bought him expensive scents would he continue to use them or return to the cheap musk—tool of his trade? Still he might think of buying him more, or something else. And Nidhal too. The hotel had so many shops. He could take the time to buy a gift or two. The whole week stretched before him. When he was in his room he took out his date book to see if he had written anything down for today and a page with a long list tumbled out. Al-Safadi: • money for Nidhal? • questions on Sufism? • Arabic lessons? • more sign language? Nidhal: • where he lives! phone number? • talk to his father again; mosque?

He added: •

trip to Kairouan tomorrow instead?

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Dobbs: • info on adopting?

He added: •

thank you note, or call

Shopping List: • more air mail envelopes • 2 bottles water • bananas, oranges • tin of chocolate, orange biscuits • macadamia nuts • cash from cash machine

He added: • •

blue bandanna for Nidhal; model airplane? brown belt for Chedli

He looked at his watch as he passed through the main medina gate. Just past ten o’clock. The shortest route to al-Safadi’s house was through the center. As his street came first, he planned to start there, on the chance that they would be there and not in the pedestrian street. Just inside the gate, the mosque square was already filling with tour groups, the café tables with a scattering of customers. He was relieved to see that Chedli and friends had not yet congregated around the fountain basin. Would he have been the topic of conversation? There goes my American friend. Oh? Does he pay well? Do you treat him like a woman? He would have bragged about the “rich professor” who was going to find him “a good paying job in New York”; how this professor “knew everyone”; how he wanted him to live with him “in his luxury flat,” but of course he would have his “own flat” and meet “lots of New York girls,” who were “all available.” He knew

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the banter. It was the same in the New York boy bars, although the equivalent rich man there would be a Hollywood producer, and their dream, a part in a film. In his wild days, he had a taste of that banter. He was about to cross the square into the warren of side streets when it occurred to him that he might find Nidhal’s father already at his caretaker job in the mosque. But it was empty; quiet and cool. He walked around the colonnade to the main prayer hall. He could see inside but not enter. There were several men praying, but not Nidhal’s father. Perhaps he should wait until one of them came out and ask? A stairway to the right of the entranceway led up onto a battlement. He sat on one of the lower steps. He wanted to see the desert with Nidhal, but Kairouan might be better tomorrow. The clerk at the hotel said it was an hour by louage. If Nidhal was at alSafadi’s house they might still go today. The louage stand was only a ten-minute walk. And Nefta later in the week? The oases. There were certain times of the year when Sufis gathered there for religious festivals or conferences. Al-Safadi would know when that was, perhaps give him an introduction if there was someone there now he could meet. Would al-Safadi believe he was serious when he told him he wanted to learn Arabic? As a Columbia professor he was sure he could sit in on classes and use the language lab there. If he rented a van they could take al-Safadi with them to Nefta. With al-Safadi along Nidhal’s father might agree to allow him to stay overnight. He imagined the three of them traveling together and it seemed right. The drone of prayer went on interminably and he left. And felt a moment’s anxiety. If al-Safadi were not at home, would he find him in the pedestrian street? But he dismissed it as more anxiety. There was a small stationery store in the square and he went in to buy larger note paper and envelopes. A small boy stopped him before he entered the shop, “Un stylo, Monsieur, un stylo.” A pen. He broke down and bought the boy one. He took it and ran off through the gate, holding it aloft like a trophy. As he rounded the corner into the small square in front of the old school building he was so lost in his own thoughts that the large 174

male crowd milling before the entrance and blocking the street took him by surprise. He stepped back into a doorway, not wanting to enter the crowd. He recognized some of the men from the meeting a couple of days before. They were busy, some of them tying green headbands around their or their friend’s forehead, some squatting on the ground making banners with paints and marking pens. There was much discussion, running to and fro, shouting of instructions. Out of place there, he felt torn between his desire to reach al-Safadi’s door and the need to act wisely. He looked back along the way he had come. There was a bakery where he could buy himself a roll, and a small grocery store where he could replace his almost empty bottle of water with a new one. Perhaps if he lingered a bit the crowd would break up. But a cheer went up, and he hurried back to his spot. Al-Safadi had appeared in the doorway and the men were pressing forward around him. Pushing his wheelchair was Nidhal’s father, but not Nidhal. Was al-Safadi going to join them on the march after all the disagreements he had voiced the other day? A chant began; fists were raised, a banner stretched along a line of men. Where was Nidhal? He was glad he was not there, not involved. At the far side of where he stood, behind the marchers to the right, there was a side street. Some of the men were starting to file out that way. As they shifted and thinned, in a break in the crowd, he caught a glimpse of Nidhal standing between two men. He shouted his name. His glimpse lasted a split second before the boy disappeared down the side street, at the front of the march. He had to cross the square to follow. Al-Safadi was still in the square, but he had no chance to approach and question him about what was going on. A white van was backing in from another street off to the left. Nidhal’s father ran up to it and slid open the side door, ran back to al-Safadi and wheeled him to the open door. Others helped lift him, chair and all, into the vehicle and Nidhal’s father slammed the door shut and stepped into the van on the passenger side. It drove off down the same street from which it had come. 175

Maurice was worried. How could they let Nidhal become involved in this? But Nidhal had been partly hidden down the side street and perhaps they had not seen him. He was stubborn and independent and capable also of going against his father’s and al-Safadi’s wishes. He had to intervene, and followed the march at a safe distance, but immediately lost it, although he could hear it clearly enough. They seemed to be heading for one of the southern gates into one of the suburbs where they probably hoped to collect more supporters before circling back up the highway toward town. There was nothing south for miles except desolate villages, and they would not continue in that direction. If he went directly back to the main gate he could intercept them as they came up from the far end of town, and even be facing them as they approached. If Nidhal were still at the front he might pull him aside or at least signal to him to come over. If the police intervened as brutally as they had the other day the men would protect themselves but not necessarily Nidhal. He had to think clearly, do something, be resolute. He hurried through the winding streets back to the main gate. As he left the medina, its wall to his right as he hurried south, a local crowd of mostly men and boys was already beginning to form along the avenue. There were few tourists, and those there looked confused and anxious. He could easily single them out, in their corduroy and button-down shirts, their floral skirts and brown leather handbags clutched tight, as if they were black and white figures in an otherwise color film. He even recognized some of them, a handful of Japanese from El-Djem the other day, several German women he recognized from the spice market the day that crazed boy had pursued him. Would he see him again today? It was the sort of day where he might. Within a minute or two he realized his hunch was right. The chanting of the marchers, still many blocks away, was growing louder. From the din he estimated that their numbers had grown considerably. Along the outside medina wall there were various food and newsstands which he might use to shield himself. Some boys had already climbed up on top of one of them. The vendor was trying to 176

knock them down with a stick and they were laughing and kicking at him. There were police sirens in the distance. And further complications. A large crowd of English youths was standing at the side of the street making obscene, taunting remarks. Were these the same that Chedli had heard last night brawling in the streets? He found a narrow broken segment of wall to stand up on. By the time the march burst onto the square by the traffic circle the avenue was backed up with blocked cars. The first lines of demonstrators arrived, but thank God Nidhal was no longer at the front. He did not see him at all. Some signs were in English. “CIA ASSASSINS”; “FREE PALESTINE”; “DEATH TO AMERICA.” Some of the English crowd on the sidelines were shouting names at the demonstrators. Someone threw a beer bottle striking one of the marchers in the face. A demonstrator rushed over and randomly punched one of the youths in the crowd. Fists began to fly. A hundred meters back in the march he suddenly glimpsed Nidhal. He was walking between the same two men, each of them with an arm around a shoulder. Maurice did not recognize the men. The boy looked bewildered, vulnerable. Someone had tied a green band around his forehead. It made Maurice angry, frustrated. How could he possibly reach him? He jumped down from his perch. If he hugged the medina wall and kept to the side, perhaps he could push his way along until he was even with Nidhal. There would only be about fifteen or twenty demonstrators between them at that point; and then he would be at Nidhal’s side and in the confusion might be able to pull him to safety. But as he began to inch his way down along the medina wall, he kept losing and gaining sight of him. The march had halted. There were too many cars and buses and tourists blocking their way, and police cars had entered the square. From the direction that the marchers had come Maurice heard more sirens, apparently the police trying to block off their retreat, he guessed, the same tactic they had used before. He caught a glimpse of Nidhal again. The pressure and milling of the crowd was forcing him away from Maurice, not closer. How could he possibly reach him? He began to panic but as he tried to 177

push through the marchers they pushed him back roughly so that, after a considerable effort, he had arrived back at the place against the old wall where he had begun. Bottles were being thrown and, as quickly as a match being struck to oil, violence spread on all sides, the police advancing from in front and behind, the youths assaulting the demonstrators, the marchers assaulting them. It was all so senseless. The utter chaos so pointless. Bodies careened into him, hurling him to the side. Nidhal! Where was Nidhal? He shouted his name, was shoved from behind, and then felt himself being drawn into the fray helplessly as into the center of a tornado. A loud warble went up from the demonstrators. A boy was lifted above their heads on scores of hands. He was not wearing a green band but Maurice was sure it was Nidhal. The warbling grew louder. The crowd parted to let the men through, holding Nidhal aloft, his head drooping backward, his mouth open, his arms hanging limply to the side. A thin stream of blood poured down one arm, one hand, and off his open palm, leaving a trail behind them. Maurice tried again to follow, but a man was blocking his way, his checkered red and white turban drawn across his face. There was something familiar about him. Perhaps one of those men he had seen leaving al-Safadi’s house? He felt desperate. He had to help the boy, but as he struck out at the nearest person and tried to shove his way through, he was pushed back. The crowd seemed to harden against him, like some mirage of a wall turned to real brick. “Let me through!” he shouted. “Please let me through!” As much as he shouted and pushed he was shoved and pushed back. “Please,” he said, “I have to help him. I have to.” He called the boy’s name. “Nidhal! Nidhal!” But a sharp blow descended on his head.

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eursault was standing at the front desk talking to the manager when Dobbs spotted him. He waited until he was finished speaking before approaching. “You’re Henri Meursault? Professor Dobbs. Cambridge. We met at a conference on social responsibility and the modern novel about three, four years ago.” “Yes, of course, I remember. You took issue with my Marxism. The English predilection for theories of the imagination. It is a pity we have to meet again under such circumstances.” “Yes. It is. The manager told me you were arriving.” “They also told me you were here. I would have contacted you last night but my plane was too late. In fact, I was just asking for your room number. You came down from Sidi they said?” “Yes. Apparently they found my number in Maurice’s room. On a pad next to the room telephone. He had only just visited me the day before the accident you know. With the boy. Nidhal. They spent the afternoon with me. It’s all quite terrible. He spoke of you often and I had the impression that you were quite good friends. And Edmund is your translator? I hope he is holding up.” 179

“I’ve spoken with him several times. He’s been sick lately and can’t travel, so I agreed to handle things here. It’s been very difficult for him.” “Yes, I thought it might.” “He’s very upset, of course. But also quite baffled by Maurice’s behavior of late. It seemed a bit crazy to me, too, to tell you the truth. We were hoping, perhaps, you could shed some light?” “Oh, I’m not sure I can.” The manager called Meursault again, “Monsieur, Monsieur, a phone call.” “Oh, that is the American embassy I think. Will you excuse me a minute?” “Yes, I’ll wait there, over to the side there.” “It’ll only be a minute.” A new tour group was arriving through the main door, and Dobbs moved further out of their way. The lobby smelled of coffee and the remains of breakfast, the smell of chlorine drifting through the open doors at the back of the room and the fainter suggestion of salt sea air. Henri looked haggard, drawn, like someone who has not slept for many days, or slept in his clothes, someone nursing a depression. How could Dobbs possibly explain Maurice’s behavior? But had Henri really expected that? Or merely some explanation he might tell Edmund, something that would make sense of it all in a simple clear way, without being the truth. Meursault waved and wended back through the confused, jetlagged Asian tourists and their mountain of luggage. Dobbs said, “Was it the embassy then?” “Yes. They arranged for transport. For me and . . . Maurice. A military transport to take us to New York. They’ll be picking me up later. They’re investigating the accident you know, but had nothing much new this morning.” “Yes. I know. Two chaps from the embassy questioned me yesterday. Secret Service, I suppose.” Meursault said, “No doubt, the same two who met me at Tunis airport last night. There was not much I could tell them.” 180

“No. Nor I.” “Really, I was hoping . . .” “Of course, Maurice had all sorts of delusions about plots and secret brotherhoods. But to tell you the truth I didn’t mention any of that to them because I don’t really believe it had anything to do with his death. There was a large demonstration that day, you know. It turned into a riot. The police are very brutal here. Very corrupt. Anything might have happened.” “But it was not a simple robbery either. After all, nothing was stolen. He had his wallet. His wrist watch.” “Well, it might have been a robbery foiled. A case of being at the wrong place at the wrong moment. . . . But the lobby is not the best place to talk about such things. What time did you say they are picking you up?” “Eleven.” “Have you had breakfast?” “No, in fact, I haven’t.” “I could use some more coffee myself, before driving on to Sidi. There are tables in the garden. We could talk there. I’m sure they’ll bring you breakfast there. Besides, there is something I want to give you. For Edmund actually.” The garden was empty of guests. On a stand near the door to poolside one of the staff was placing numbers on a board for air, sea, and pool temperatures; 19, 17, and 25 respectively. A boy was sweeping the pool with a long aluminum rake. A child banged on the piano in the ballroom, and was stopped abruptly; emphasizing the return to orderly peacefulness. None of the tables were yet occupied, but one was more secluded than the others and they settled there. A waiter had been shadowing from a few yards, but no sooner were they seated than he came over to wipe the table of the residue from the overhead trees, and the beads of salt sweat the sun had not yet burned away. Did they want the royal blue table umbrella raised? They did not. He took their orders and left. Henri said, “It was raining in Paris when I left last night. They say it is lucky to arrive for the first time in Paris in the rain. But to 181

leave? Whatever it means it fit my mood. Are you staying on long in Sidi?” Dobbs replied, “Only for the remainder of the month I’m afraid. Duty calls. I shall, of course, miss it when I’m back in dreary Cambridge. Thank God I can get away often. Being of . . . a certain age . . . gives you few advantages, but a flexible teaching schedule and greater free time are two.” Meursault laughed, “But it is an economic advantage, isn’t it?” “I suppose it is.” Henri drew out a pack of French cigarettes, one of those raw, pungent brands, and held it out to Dobbs. “Will you have one?” “Oh no. I don’t smoke.” “You are eminently sensible. Do you mind?” “Certainly not outdoors.” “It is a bad habit. Maurice was trying to get me to stop.” He paused to light the cigarette, or reflect. “Maurice . . . yes, that Maurice. I can’t help feeling angry, you know. He always had such good judgment.” Dobbs thought that with a cigarette Meursault’s stringent, lined face, his thinning hair grown long to hide the onset of baldness, made him seem more like a vain existentialist intellectual, a Camus heir, than the ascetic Marxist type he wished to cultivate in his writing. How would he appear to Henri? Stuffy? Fussy? Old-maidish? Dobbs said, “You must have known him well?” “Yes. Fifteen . . . twenty years. Edmund has been my translator almost from the beginning. You see, I had come to rely on Maurice for advice. It is impossible for me to believe that someone like him would have simply been so careless. I was hoping . . . looking forward to hearing what you knew.” “So that I might be able to explain it? Probable cause and all that? But you see, I cannot.” “No, not exactly an explanation. A clue perhaps. Only a clue. You said you had something? For us.” “Yes.” Dobbs glanced around nervously before retrieving a black book from his bag. “His diary, you see.” 182

Meursault thought that Dobbs’s furtive glance over his shoulder might give away his suspicions, even if he were not willing to own up to them. Dobbs slid the book over to him and added, “I found it on the seat of a chair. On his balcony. Apparently they overlooked it.” Meursault said, “You’ve read it I hope?” “Yes. I must admit I have. I thought, you see, forewarned, forearmed. In case I was questioned.” “I would have done the same. I do not criticize you, you know.” “No. Of course not.” “And?” “Did I learn anything?” “Yes.” “Not really. Nothing with certainty. But you will have to form your own judgment. And of course Edmund. I hardly knew Maurice.” Meursault had been rifling through the pages but closed it and left it lying there beside his breakfast spoons, his napkin, his butter knife. Hidden in plain sight, he thought. Should he phone Edmund first, to ask his permission before reading it? But Edmund would assume he would, and would want to discuss it. Henri said, “I will read it later, but perhaps I might ask you one thing? Maurice came to see you, you said. A day or two before the accident? With the boy?” “Yes. You want to know my impressions of him?” “Yes. If you would.” “Well, it is simple really. I think I can even summarize it. There was a moment. Maurice and the boy were sitting together on the sofa opposite me. We were talking quietly and I had the sense, well, that the boy was quite dependent on him already.” “In what way?” “The boy, Nidhal, was sitting right up against Maurice. Not away from him. Not independently. He’s a deaf-mute, you know. Lip reads a bit was staring directly at me, at my lips, though we were speaking English, of course, and I don’t think the boy spoke any. I 183

found it rather, discomforting, and suggested to Maurice that the boy might like to be shown around the house. The friends from whom I rent have an Arab sword collection. Just the thing a boy would like. I was staying there with a Moroccan friend and said he might show Nidhal about. And Maurice thought it a good idea, that my friend could explain things to him in Arabic, which the boy seemed to follow. But, you see, when the boy realized what I was proposing, I caught him glancing at Maurice with great anxiety, a brief second of separation anxiety I suppose. Maurice must have felt it also because he patted his hand and reassured him.” “There was an emotional bond, you are saying.” “Yes. I think you know Maurice was flirting with the idea of becoming the boy’s guardian?” “Yes. We spoke of it and I told him I thought it was silly.” “I did not have the luxury. But, you see, there was something there from the boy’s side, too.” Meursault nodded. “Yes. It was not just Maurice’s invention, you think.” “Perhaps not. Not entirely.” Meursault picked up the diary and rifled through the pages. “And there is no clue here, you think? None at all?” “I can’t say there is. But, as I’ve indicated. I cannot say I really knew the man. Perhaps, to a friend, a lover . . .” Their conversation was interrupted by the waiter returning with their coffee. He said to Henri that his breakfast was nearly ready and he would return with it in five minutes. The boy’s French had the accents of Marseilles, and he wondered if he had worked there. When the boy had left Meursault said, “Was there anything else then?” “No. I cannot say there was. I did look around carefully to see if they had missed anything else, but could not see anything else.” “The book you had lent?” “Oh, that was still there. Travels to Medina and Mecca. From where the bookmark was placed, he had nearly finished it. Pity

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really. I would have loved to have known what he thought of it. It is one of my favorite books, you see.” “But you . . . we shall never know.” “No. We shan’t.”

As Henri sat in the lobby waiting for the embassy van to pick him up, he had a chance to read some of Maurice’s diary. Tucked in at the back was a packet of loose pages held together with a paper clip. A note from Dobbs was attached. Henri, These fragments seem to have been the last made by Maurice. I have tried to arrange them in the order I think he wrote them, but you might have different ideas how they should be read. Dobbs. Apparently Maurice was in the habit of jotting down thoughts which he might or might not transcribe into his diary? Henri removed the paper clip and leafed through the various bits and pieces of paper; a corner of a napkin, the back of an envelope, a torn sheet from a notebook. He would, he decided, read these first, as if they were the epigrams of a dying man, which, of course, they were not. Back of taxi, returning to Sousse. Nidhal curled in corner asleep, my jacket over him. A great sense of peace. The lights of farm houses far off through orderly olive groves; the small village houses shuttered and still. The taxi driver turned his radio off when I asked, but the bangles that hang from the visors and rearview mirror click and ring; worry beads, a key chain with a skull, a plastic clown’s head that is also a bottle opener; a gold Arabic word suspended from a gold chain swinging against the windshield. I lean forward and quietly ask the driver what the gold word means and he says, “Inshallah. May God will it.” 8 How settled Dobbs seems. I do not mean in the rental house in Sidi Bou Said, or in Tunisia, but in general, in the

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schedule he has worked out for himself; teaching in Cambridge, here for part of the year with Rashid. Is being at home a temporal as well as a spatial state? 8 Dobbs is “settled” in the sense that he has balanced several opposites; England and North Africa, a closeted life and Rashid. But he was very coy about the kind of life he has with Rashid. A lifetime’s habit of discretion should not be mistaken for deception. Hard to figure out their roles. Much too glib to call Rashid’s cooking and serving, Dobbs’s sitting around entertaining, a male/female division, or servant/ master for that matter, colonized/colonizer. There was, at the dinner table, Dobbs’s rather paternal affection, which might be paired with Rashid’s brotherly kindness toward Nidhal. But Dobbs’s economic superiority highlights other disparities: Dobbs’s age and accumulation of experience; Rashid’s youthful idealism and vigor. And Dobbs takes a certain uxorial pride in Rashid’s intelligence; his ambitions to be a lawyer. As any good wife would encourage her husband? Dobbs will help and sustain Rashid. Has he opened a bank account for him? As I am thinking of doing for Nidhal? It is quite Grecian; all mentoring and socialization. 8 Dobbs made an interesting remark, while Rashid was showing Nidhal around the house and we were alone: That the true divide in the world was not East/West but North/South. And that this was also true in the nineteenth century for the English poets like Byron. North/South is a radical demarcation of sensibility. And my view that the Mediterranean can be seen as a contiguous region, of land and spirit, of histories and culture? Dobbs says, I think too glibly, that it is a paradox. The Maghreb is at once 186

contiguous and Other. But while we were discussing it, the thought crossed my mind that he was really talking about himself and Rashid. Or any good relationship? Where there is at once something knowable and yet wholly other about the beloved? 8 Dobbs and Rashid? Eddie and me? More “equalized”? When Eddie flashes through my mind so does New York. Our life there is so earnest and hectic in comparison to what Dobbs has in Sidi. Our schedules are frantic. Some days we only meet at the front door coming or going. As I sat there at the table in the perfume and birdsong of Dobbs’s Islamic paradise garden, I could not help but reflect that, on the one hand, there simply were not moments like this at home, and, on the other, that ours was a more natural, a more holistic reality than Dobbs’s sporadic idyll. 8 When Rashid returned from showing Nidhal the aviary and sword collection I encouraged Nidhal to make some of his Arabic word drawings and he got into the spirit of the thing, trying to make them so elaborate that they would fool Rashid, whose Arabic is better than his French. One, however, stumped him, and only after a few long minutes did his face brighten, “Ah! Very clever. It is Mashallah. God has willed it.” Mashallah . . . Inshallah? What has come to pass? 8 When I drop Nidhal off at the medina gate, he grins, hugs me, and runs off without looking back, disappearing quickly into the warren of streets. I would have liked to have seem him safely to his door, but he still won’t have it. Perhaps he is not going home? Or do I make up a life for him out of the 187

evanescent clay of his silences? I tell myself that I am concerned for his safety, or curious what this part of the medina is like at night. Full of stray cats and danger? So different from the western and eastern parts where I have walked at night? Those streets linger until midnight with cooking smells; with the modern din, and home life: television sets blaring; popular Tunisian music; arguments and coughing children; the banging of doors, the barking of dogs. 8 As I watch Nidhal depart he seems happy. Seems to have enjoyed the day. Why, then, do I feel such an overwhelming sense of failure? I felt it too at Dobbs’s house. My failure to communicate the proper questions about the country, leading to Dobbs’s failure to give any clear answers. My failure to explain elaborate political hypotheses that came out sounding like American conspiracy theories. Nidhal’s fleeting form left questions in its wake. Am I harming or helping him? Altruistic or selfish? Am I a blind man being led by a deaf-mute boy? As I watched him run off I wanted to call him back, and avoid for a while longer my failure, my inadequacy. 8 Note at hotel. Chedli saying to phone him no matter what time I get in. But it is not yet midnight. Not yet tomorrow. I call. He says breathlessly through the static of his mobile telephone, “Faire l’amour? Faire l’amour?” I hear motorbikes speeding in the background and café music. I can guess precisely which table he is sitting at in which café around the mosque square. Is phoning me a last resort? Are there no other tourists around? Does he prefer to be with me, or merely cultivate a prospective renter? I don’t have to bring my ego or expectations to bed with us tonight. 188

8 8:30 a.m. Back at hotel. Something had awakened Chedli in the middle of the night but after he came back to bed I could not get back to sleep myself and decided to walk back here along the beach. Not a soul out. The sea very calm, gentle swell from a rising tide. Chedli very insistent about signing a lease later today. But I have not made up my mind. Would I inherit Chedli along with the clear plastic furniture covers and the plastic flowers in brass vases? Could Nidhal come and go freely? Nidhal. We had made an appointment to meet early this morning, but I had failed him. Perhaps we would meet later this morning at al-Safadi’s. Learn Arabic? Rent a room in the medina? Fly back to Paris tomorrow? New York Monday? Resume my teaching, my life. Or stay? Stay and begin to set some of my failures right. . . .

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