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    MOUAWAD WAJDI - A Bomb in The Hearth PDF

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    Also by Wajdi Mouawad: Dreams Forests Scorched Tideline A BOMBin THE HEART WAJDI MOUAWAD TRANSLATED BY LINDA GABORIAU PLAYWRIGHTS CANADA PRESS TORONTO Commissioned by Theatre de Sartrouville, Un obus dans le coeur vas fist produced on February 24, 2003, at the Médiathéque de Frontenac in Jouars- Pontchartrain, Yvelines, France, # production of Cldyssées 78, the blennal of theatre for young audi ences, designed by Thédtre de Sartrouville-Centre Dramatique National and the Yvelines General council “The production was directed by Christian Gatigneron and performed by Olivier Constant {Un obus dans le coeur is drawn from the novel Visage retrouvé by Wadi Mouavrad, ‘The first word I found to tell this story was the ‘word “before.” But saying “before” is new to me. ‘Sometimes say "I was usta kid, before.” When did 1 stop? I don't know. That's Just hove it is now. I bear ‘old people talking. They say: “Before the war.” That isa definite before. The war Is definite. Or: “Before the death of go and so.” That's definite too. Death is efinte, Before. I don't know. ‘My name is Abdelwabab, like the singer, but eve- ryone calls me Wahab, am nineteen and recently T've been able to say “before,” and sometimes it's a catastrophe, How did i all begin... 1 don't know. ‘ean't say Theard the phone ring ean‘ say that. can only sy that Iwas siting on my bed wondering, fT dreams it. That was possible. It was night- time, it was cold, Was T dreaming? Then T heard it ring, lke an answer: "You weren't dreaming” But I could have been, Outside, there was a storm and the snow-removal equipment was making a racket. A real uproar. It could have been a dream. But Ifound myself holding the receiver in my hand. Tsatd hello A BOMBINTHE HEART ina nortnal voice, Someone said: “Wahab?” I said, yes. Someone said "Get here fast.” And T hung up. ‘Outside, a snowstorm, They'd forecast it forthe fol- lowing morning, but it camp in the night, rm walking dovn the freezing street. Razor blades ‘are falling. Is cold, The sharp winter cold that strips ‘your fce, your fingers, our toes, tothe bone, The ‘soul shivers, Bt not because ofthe cold. I walt. The bus is limping towards the stop and the light turns red. The bus stops. Twenty yards away. Ican see the driver take asip of something hot. He sees me. ‘The light is red, Blinking my eyes melts the frost ‘on my lashes and winter mes pouring down my checks. I'm clutching some change in my coat pocket. 1 breathe deeply into my scarf so the mist from my ‘mouth warms my nose. The bus sx moving, Enough ‘tomake you want to kill Throw bombs, Before, there twas sunshine, But when? When? ... This city is @ punishment. But you cant complain Tes better than 2 ‘bomb exploding in your fice. Tam the twin brother of ‘a civil war that ravaged the country where I was born. \WasD1 MOuAWAD You never know how a story begins. Never. mean, 1 wasn‘ siting there waiting for ito begin. hap- pened, I was asleep. Drinnanng! Hello? Get here fast! Shlack! Deep freeze. Bus on the street corner. Green light, Bus staggering towards me. If only the storm could lst a thousand years. Let it snow fora thousand years. Constantly. To break all records. In uration, And accumulation, And shit. Let it snow s0 hard that later I'l be able to say: "Before the storm,” “After the storm,” and everyone my age will know which night I mean. ‘The bus stops. The doors open. I get in, ‘The word “before” used to belong to my father, my mother. My mother used to say, “Before the war, it was a beautiful country.” She was taking about that distant country, our ancestors’ country, coun- try of cedars and water, mountains and sunshine, lost country, defeated country, and there Iwas, far from the civil war, my twin sister, sitting Inthe cor ner of the living room, listening to the adults talk among themselves. 'd imagine long, sunny strolls, the sea crashing at the feet of the people walking ‘with thele pants rolled up above their knees, holding their shoes in their hands. My father used to say: A BOMB INTHE BART “*Refore I got marcied .." and Ya see a free man. Back then, Iwas dealing with the later on. Later on, {you'll grow up, you'll understand, you'l be able, ‘you'll do, youll go, and I gobbled up the impossible. "Today, all that isa before and I am in the later on ‘longed for, reamed of; and I'm telling you, that later on, now that I'm in it, ist woeth shit. 'm sit- ting at the back of the bus, ve grown up and I'm freezing my ass off and no one knows who Tam or whats happening to me I try to imagine what i's going to be lke, With abit of luck, I'l be the ast one to arrive. I don't have a car. I don't drive, so I paid for my bus Fide. Things ‘got of toa bad start. was short twenty-five cents Thad to negotiate with the driver, tried to getaway ‘with dropping all my change into his piggy-bank, but he had a good ear. He was quick. No slouch. He must've been driving buses for a long time. Without even looking, just from the sound of the coins that fell nto the metal box, he knew. He raises his hand. I stop, I back up. He doesn't look at me, He holds up his hand and says, “That's snot enough.” "tes all have..." "vs not enough.” ‘We go around in cireles. "$02" “So, another twenty-five cents” {Ldon’t know how itall ended ... there are exchang- es 14 rather forget, T told him, “tm going tothe hospital.” "You should go tothe hospital. When you're slek in the head, you get help.” "My mother is dying, connard, and you can stick your twenty-five cents up your ass” That just came out. He didn't say a thing. Iwent tothe back of the bus, {heard the driver say to the passengers sitting near bim, “Another goddamn Frenchman,” “'m not French, so screw you." I shouted, So there. When your mother is dying, it gives you certain rights. I'you play your cards right, you can exploit sto the max, Everyone is touched, upset, when you say that your mother is dying and you're only nine- tecn. Your destiny becomes special i other people's eyes. See him, he's somebody, they say quietly, his ‘mother is dying. That wins respect. You can, repeat, really exploit the situation, Merde Fucking hell like to puneh someone! If the driver gives me any ‘more lak, 1 shove is dashboard with al the d- als down his throat! Shit Sitting atthe back of the ‘bus, tall to myself, clenching my teeth, talking to calm myself down, I repeat words, a thousand curses against the whole Earth, my entire vocabulary from all three languages: my mother tongue, my teenage tongue and my current language. Go fuck yourself, you fat shitface, akhou charmoutal Serew you, you fucking jerkoff of an akroutel Kiss otal re bay- ak, you pathetic asshole. Yd like to shove my dick down your throat, you stupid bitch! Lots of words, lots of sentences in my mouth to bury the storm in ‘my brain, my mind, my consciousness, my soul oF whatever clei inside me, because something in my head is murmuring very, very softly, some violent words, and despite the sound of my anger and the agnashing of my teeth and all the noise in the bus, despite the wind and the snow and the storm and the rage, Ican hear those words from the dawn of time; “My mather Is dying, she's dying, the bitch, and she'll never piss me off gain." IFT had a gun, fd shoot myself to stop the flood. A huge wave i sing {inside me and lifting me up to smash me against the ‘reef of my pain It dumps my heart on the black floor ‘of the bus, A bloody mas, I can see it suffocating like a fish rejected by the raging sea, Its source of survival, Lean seit, ike those great whales beached ‘on the shore, struggling to get back to the waves, longing for the sparkling water of my tears so It can beat once again, But my eyes are dry. And I'm suffocating alone at the back of the bus, strangled by my obligation to love my mother because she is dying, when for so long now, her face, my mother's face, has lin forgotten somewhere in the desert of my memory, ever since the big transformation that happened ages ago, Iwas fourteen. And shit. ne day, my mother’s face changed. Maybe that’s the beginning of my story. The day of my four teenth birthday, my mother’s face was suddenly different. I mean, totaly different. And nobody seemed surprised. Nobody said a thing. So Iran away. When they caught up with me, they asked ime, “Wahab, why did you run away?” I told them si was because I was afraid of my mother's new face. They took me to a doctor. A real dumbeass. He asked me the same question, and I gave him the same answer, “What do you mean?” the dumb-a5s finally asked me. ‘what do you mean, what do I mean?” “what do you mean?” ‘r mean that my mother used to have a different faces” ‘nj don' understand. Different... hw?” “just different, All ofa sudden!” “she aged?” “Not She looked like a different person. Completely dierent!” “a can't follow you. You mean, your mother is no longer your mother?” “erhat’s what I thought at frst. A guest. A fiend of the family, who knows, but -...n0... it was hee, but with a diferent face.” ‘what is your mother’s face lke?” “pound. Green eyes, her hairdo set with spray” so?" “ope other day, I come home from school, there she fs, with her pale face, her blank eyes her long blond bhai hanging down. She's thin and everyone i act- lng like is normal.” “When was that?” “Two weeks ago. On my birthday. My fourteenth birthday.” “what do you intend to do?” “what do you want me to do?” “tm asking you.” “Well, nothing. I'm going to keep my mouth shut. ‘That’ what. Okay. She’ my mother. know. Atleast ‘my head knows, Maybe that's enough. Period” He didnt say another word. Inever saw him again. never mentioned it again to anyone ese either, [just wanted them to get off my back. Thad my ftiends and things were okay. had my mother’s forgotten faces in my head, To fx them there in my mind, I began to draw, Draw my memory of her. At first, It ‘was awkward, unrécognizable, almond eyes, a flat face, ears sticking out, no perspective. did't know how. Now I know a bit better and I come closer to my memory. V’m fed up and I'm suffocating. Three more stops till the hospital, but I don’t give a damn. I pull on the cord, The driver gives me @ look in his ABOMB INTHE HEART rearview mirror. The light turns green. The bus starts up again, Okay. [head forthe door. “We haven't reached the hospital yet” “know!” “Lousy lian” {don't answer. I get ff the bus. It drives off, Ieav~ ing me on the sidewalk. And it's lke, the fact that the driver i convinced that I lied so I could get away with paying less upsets me more than my reason for being here at this hour when you can't tell if t's late at night or very early in the morn- ing, Maybe that’s what I start to find amazing: the feeling that my emotions are out of syne with the situation. 15 a killer. On television, heroes ery ‘when they/te sad and they laugh when they'e bap- py. In my heart, there's a monumental mess, total clash between reality and my feelings, so bad that ‘everything ends up coming out in strange combi- nations. Totally 1m walking down the street. Maybe she has al- ready died. How do I feel about that, I wonder. T feel nothing, I answer. My brother's voice was de- sive, cutting. “wellor” “Wahab” "Yes." “get here fas” ‘And hung up, ‘The rest ofthe family must alzeady be there. I'm sure they're all crying. There are blasts of fey wind. Blinding me. I'm no longer the one who's walking. ‘There's the hospital. Something inside me is eading sme to it. My entire life, know my entre life was designed to bring me to this place today. [lke to ‘escape. To the sun. But that's unthinkable, Escape is unthinkable, Even in my head. Nothing. I'm too tle, To turn back, Ihave to find the strength to turn the tide of my entire existence. A single move in the opposite direction and fd be decapitated. Too late to resist the driving fore of my life. I cross the last street. T erossit and the hospital is right there. ‘am Sir Percival, wounded in the heart, returning tothe fortress, Arthur is dying and I haven't found the Holy Grail. My empty hands are clenched in my coat pockets. I move forward, my head dove, my body bending into the sudden gusts of wind. I wish she could have died soundlessly. A heart attack or ‘thrombosis, drowned or a car accident. Something neat, definitive, immediate. No warning symptoms, zo treatments, no chemo, no radiation, no nothing, zo shit. No time gone by. Barely time to say oooff You have to be stubborn to die of cancer. I's long. Ws shitty it puts people through shit, [know. How ‘many times di she call me, screaming in the middle ofthe night? Wabab? Wahab? ... And me, yanked from sleep, suddenly dumped on the continent of consciousness, orn from the arms of forgetting Yd {go nto her bedroom. The others were sleeping, My father was snoring. What? What? What's wrong? sthurts, Wahab! Where? Dear God, ithurts. Where does it hurt? Tt hurts. We went around in circles and I couldn't tll iT was awake or still asleep. For weeks shed ruled over my nights and Yd dream that she was calling me and that I was getting up. "That would wake me up and I'd see that I was in sy bed, Sometimes she really was calling me. After awhile, the diference between my dreams and re- ality became blurred. The ocean and the sky when they blend at the horizon. Same colour, No clear \ | k distinction. It hurts, Wahab. I know. Massage my feet. Yd kneel atthe foot of her bed. A child praying 1d begin by stroking her ankles. Soft hair beneath ‘my hand. Before, she used to wax her legs to leave ‘the skin silky. That was along time ago, even before ‘the metamorphosis, Now she had no reason to make herself beautiful, she was going to dle. Then I would lift her leg and 1 massage her heel. Rough skin. Dead skin, The heel that had worked so hard, that had supported her, was useless now. No need. Then, pressing with my thumbs, T4 massage the soles of her feet. The arch. Where the skin is so smooth. T ‘concentrated, I imagined that her pain was leav- ing her body. Phosphorescence. Nota square inch that I didn't caress with all the tenderness I could muster. [told myself that my mothers face might have changed but she stil had the same feet. When ried, Iheld my breath so she wouldn't know. The pain had to be released, Hers. Mine. Afterwards, Twas exhausted. 1d start dreaming again. I fall asleep with my head on her feet. Sometimes, fT was lucky, she would pass out. Other times, she'd ry. ‘The pain was too bad and nothing could be done sbout it. Nothing. I stay there and watch her burn and I'd forget who I was. And because the silence between us made me want to vomit, kill, crush, slit someone’ throat, I'd finally ask her: “What ean 1 4o, what ean I possibly do?” Just lke when I was litle and came running home crying, looking for consolation inher arms. But now, her arms bad been amputated and consolation was impossible, No more consolation. Only the sharp metal of reality. And she, with her unfamiliar face, would stare at me and think my sadness made her sad. Touched her. Asif sheld just re ‘we could feel pity. Perhaps my greatest gift to her Unexpected and unbearable, ized that she was someone for whom Straight ahead of me there's a Santa Claus. No joke. {A Santa Claus. A veal one. T mean: he's there. In the snow, Walking down the sidewalk. Heading to- wards me, Coming closer. A Santa Claus. The whole kit. The red sult, white beard, black boots. I dida’t s0e him coming. There he is. He just appeared. Out ‘of nowhere. Before, I used to see apparitions. An apparition, I think, But, no. Totally real, He must hhave come out ofthe hospital... After visiting the Patients... sick kids. "The usual. But stl i feels \elrd. He comes up to me, Stops, He must've been holding the keys in his hand because I dont see him take them out of is pocket. He opens the door of his car. He bends over. He has a big as. He stats the ignition. He stands up and using a litle brush, ‘mechanically, Santa Claus stars to clear the snow off the windshield and the car windows. I watch him. 1 don’t move. He walks around the cat, Without look- {ng at me. He tosses his little brush onto the back seat, climbs into his ear, slams the door and shifts gears. He wants to leave. He can't Forget it. He in sists, but there's no way. The car starts to smoke, 1 watch it: the wheels turn, spin, side, screech, no way. He can't move, He accelerates, back and fort, doesn't budge. Enough to drive you crazy. One of those nights when you say, it's one of those nights, ‘The wheels spin every which way let ight, going ‘nowhere fst. ough to make you cry. I don't move. ‘The car doesn't move. It goes on and on. He gives it one more shot. He pushes the pedal tothe floor. ‘The car sereeches. And he's stuck. He gets fed up. He A BoMDINTHE HEART stops. I wait. The door opens. Santa Claus gets out of the car saying, “Sonofabitcht” He finds a metal shovel in the trunk of his car and starts chopping the ice and shovelling the snow arousid each wheel “Then, back in the car, he starts up again. Same rou- tine, Back and forth, Useless. Hopeless. He gets out ‘agen. I don't move. He looks at me. “what are you doing there?” “1'm going to the hospital” “are you sick?” “No, My mother i. She's going to die." “Ob, see,” says Santa Claus “re shuts up. He looks at me. I ean tell he wants to ask me something. He doesn’t know how, “thas no fun,” he says. "Noy" Tanswer Great dialogue. {still don't move, He scratches his head and looks at is ca. Right, he says. Lean see him coming, A brief, polite silence. So it's not too brutal. T go to leave, but he's too quick. “could you give mea little push?” “tes because my mother is dying “at will only take a minute!” ee ee ee ‘wapr Mouawan How could I say no to that? He gets back into his car, He stars the engine. I push. It doesn't budge. We're stuck. He insist, I give it my all Push! Push! shouts Santa Claus. I've got his exhaust pipe in my face. Push! Push! I'm pushing! You got no muscles, for Chrissakes? Push! I have to do something, say something to him, That it doesn’t matter, i's not serious, It will all work out, he just has to be pa- tient and sooner or later the sun will melt the snow. Snow is't death, the wheels won't be stuck in the snow forever, there's hope. Phave to tel him, Ihave to tell Santa Claus that time will pass and he will forget. [Just have to get myself out of here. He f- nally understands. He gets out again and now he’ really not happy. “You'll have to calla tow truck,” Isai “Sonofabitcht” Santa Claus answered, and 1 ook off Now nothing stands between me and the hospital Not a single street. Not even a lamppost. A park- ing lot maybe. There Tam, in the middle ofthe cars lined up. Cemetery. Me, in the middle ofa parking lot. Looking through the glass door ofthe hospital Good God, Shit Shit. My feet are soaking wet. Wait. ‘Stop. Stop. Back up. Back to square one. Please. Give mean accident. A car bomb. An assassination. ‘Something, anything. I don't know. An earthquake, [No such Iuek, Nothing but the falling snow. That never killed anybody. Ihave to go inside “The elevator stops, the doors open. Shit, sit, shit, shit. Basement. Fuck. The doors open. A long pale pink corridor with Christmas decorations hang- lng everywhere. Balls Can't they give us a break with their shitty decorations, it ugly enough, why make it worse? [head down the hall, rooms on either side, old people dying. Not today. m trembling, ‘Tomorrow. Ihear someone say: “She was so young,” Someone else who asks: “Which one isi?” I don't ‘know ifanyone answered, Ive moved on. At the end of the corridor there's group of people, chat’ them, I see my aunt, She's fat, obese, Emotional. She'll cry when she sees me, She'll beso sure of what I'm feeling that she'll want to console me. Stupid bitch thinks I'm sad because on rv, when you lose your mother, youre sad. So she'll pounce on me. Shit. I'm fed up with this whole scene, I get to the room. Fat ‘warDr MOUAWAD cow falls into my arms. She moos something. Tate ‘them all. Don't ask me why, but Yd happily mow ‘them all down. They/te all there, [follow thers into room that’s three by four metres with one bed and sn that bed theres the body of the woman with long, blond hair who's dying. Her eyes are open, she's staring atthe eeling, and from her guts, with every breath comes a moan. My sister Nawal is holding her hand and the fat cow stands behind the bed, lean- ing over her and shouting disgusting things into her ear: “Mariamme, Mariamme, you're beautiful, ‘sweetheart!” Shut up, shut your fat face, you fat cow, you bitch! I don't say 2 thing. Everyone's there, uncles and aunts, Everyone is looking on, My father is there. Took at him. Nidal, my brother, is stand- ing beside me. Bveryone looks distressed, take off my coat. I put it down on a chatr atthe foot of the bed where no one seems to want t sit. My mother ‘moans, She moans and I'm ashamed, That's i, At the very end, life hangs on, and forthe others, the living, waiting for death to come is as long as eter- nity. T cant take it. Tleave the room. © A BOMB IN THE HEART walle to the end of the edridor. There's a tle wait ing room. A synthetic Christmas tree in one corner, ‘make-believe presents under it, an upright plano and more decorations, A gold garland is hanging ‘way up on the wall, attached at both ends with bits ‘of Scotch tape. It looks like all the other garlands, its silly and sad. 1 ook at it. In green letters, in ‘vaguely medieval script, there's the famous “Merry Christmas and Happy New Year / Joyeux Notl et Bonne Année." Great. “Merry Christmas / Joyeux [NotI tha’ not going to be easy, but “Happy New ‘Year and Bonne Année,” I got nothing against that, 1 just don't know how to make it happen. Isit down, ‘om a sofa. There are some magazines on a coffee ta- ble. real wating room. To walt for what? “Please ‘wait here, i's won't be long before your mother ies” Shit. Just thinking about that makes me want to pulke. How could they puta waiting room i pal- lative care? Black humour. Sadism. They even put a litte sign on the wall beside the door: “Waiting Room." To avoid any confusion, They want to make sure we understand: waiting room and nothing ese. Assholes! I want to wake up. Get moving, Come on, ‘up you get! Move your ass ery hard. No way. Thats ft, Like a knife stuck in your throat. ‘Three days ater Iran away, [landed on a farm. Just before the police caught up with me and took me home, I found myself siting beside a gel who dida't talk, Maya. Maya who introduced me to beauty. We were both eaught in a storm, at her grandfather's bedside. Her grandfather talked to me about wolves and wolves freed me from my fears, He told me that cever since he was alittle boy, he'd been afraid of ‘wolves and now that he was going to de, that fear ‘came back stronger than ever. He asked me what 1 ‘was afraid of, and [told him about my twin sister, the civil war that had destroyed my country. Tell ‘me more, he sid. So told him. And now, sitting ln the waiting room waiting for my mother to die, 1 remember my twin sister, the civil war. And Tthinke ‘that might have been the beginning. Not the phone call, not my mothers face the day of my fourteenth birthday, no, the beginning is my twin sister, the source of the worst fear in my life. I remember {fm seven years old. In the land of my childhood. {Fm hanging onto the handlebars of my tricycle and '’m tearing around the balcony. I'm breaking all ‘A BOMB IN THE HEART iy records. My racing car is speeding light years away from the Earth. Ihave to reach the planet ‘Vulgus where the fate of humanity is hanging by a thread. 11 have no pity for the monstrous monsters Besides, there on my handlebars, next to the horn, ‘my laser cannon is ready to pulverize all the vulgar Vulgusians. My mother annoys me. Her presence reminds me that I'm silat home and not in hyper- space. It doesnt mater. My eyes promptly transform har, her and her ironing board, into a horrible out- ‘ex-space gnome with fish scales and eyes like a Hy. ‘And I speed ahead, I pedal away, free as a bird. Calm down, don't go so fast, shouts the gnome with the Jroning board, and I, the bravest man on Barth, re- ply thatthe gross venom coming out of her mouth cannot stop me in my mission, Humanity ie waiting for me and I will ot Jet them down. Victory! The ‘gnome retreats, but nat fr long. The gnome returns ‘and tells me Thave to get ready to vist Aunt Héléne, ery. Uhave tantrum, resist and refuse, but theres ‘no escape, there Lam in the elevator with the gnome going down seven floors. ‘Wee in the street, Sulfocating heat, The sun is beat- ing down on the city, My mother tells me: “Walt heres” She goes into a store to buy cigarettes. don't move, There are cars. Lots of cars. Horns honking. Imitating my mothers voce, I say: “Why do they hhave to honk?” A bus goes by. Packed with people. It stops in front of me. A happy song on the radio. "ook at the passengers. They're funny. There are ‘women, Old men. Some are fat, some skinny. Some slim, They'ee sweating. A kid my age smiles at me. 1 go close. Irsise my hand. The bus isn't moving, cars are honking behind it. The boy shouts to me over the racket: “Kifel yim byo'dar baad yodhar ‘mén el lay?” I's alin from the song. “How can the ay stil rise from the night" I pretend to bea belly dancer. I imitate the moves. We laugh. Him in the bus, Me in the street, Nothing is moving. The driver is furious, shouting at everyone. A car arrives from the opposite direction and slams on the brakes. The tires squeal, Car doors slam, People start running 1 don't understand. My friend keeps staring at me. Everything happens too fast. A man arrives with ‘hose and soaks the bus. I remember my mother and her instructions for watering delicate plants “The water smells strange It splashes the passengers. Panic spreads, They're screaming. They try to get ‘out, but they cant, Someone s blocking the door of the bus, People are running. Shouting: “Its not wa- ter. I's not water. It's ga. Gas!” Look at my frend. eis soaking wet. I's hot, His eyes are wide open. ‘The man goes on spraying. The diver begs him: “In the name of your mother. In the name of your moth- ext" “Go fuck yourself” the other one answers, and shoots him in the head. People scream. The driver falls onto the horn. Men everywhere, Carrying ma- chine guns. A woman tres to escape through the ‘window. Three long series of shots: ‘Ratatatatatatatatatatatatatatatacatatatatatatatatatata tatatatatatatatatatatata Ratatatatattatatatatatatatatatatatatatataatatatatata tatatatatatatataatatata ‘Rtatatatatatatatatatatatatatatacatatatattatatatatata tatatatatatatatatatatata Suddenly, really suddenly, from one second to the next, the bus goes up in flames. The old men, the ‘women and the fat people are on fie. Everything {son fie, The woman straddling the window stops ‘moving, She is burning. Her skin melts. I stare into ny friend's eyes, H's stil looking at me. The smoke is making me cry. It smells of burnt meat. 1'm alone. ‘The clty evaporates, I'm floating in the middle of nothing, A thick fog. The machine guns are crack- ling, the horn is weeping, the fire is devouring ‘everything and in the glow of the flames, inside the glowing carcass of the bus, I see the silhouette cof a woman dressed in black approach my friend, er hands and her arms are wooden, her face velled ‘She was non-existent before. She had no body, no soul, nothing. She was born ofthe fire and there she Is, Tean see het, Lean see er grab my ftiend by the throat, can see her strangle him, tear off his head. She opens her mouth and devours his head. She turns to me. She looks at me. I can't escape. Who is she? Nothing exists now, no more light, no more beauty, no more beauty. {told this story to Maya's grandfather. He smile. He sald: “Ie takes one childhood fear to defeat an- other childhood fear. Rest assured, Wahab, maybe fone day you will ace the woman with the wooden limbs and you'll be afraid, but be confident, let that fear fil you, et it pass through you, and when it takes hold of you and you think: I'm finished —the wolves will appear. The pack will come running to save you from the horcible woman.” “What about you?” “When the wolves appear, at the moment of my death, the woman with the wooden limbs will emerge from my memory and with her hands, se will break their necks and save me, It akes one childhood fear to defeat another childhood fear.” in the walting room, next to the Christmas tre, there's the upright piano. don't know how to play, but who cares, I sit down on the bench. Yrun my fingers over the keys I play a few notes. The white ones, The black ones are too dissonant. There's no escape, Shit. Before, there was a door tucked away fn the back of my TY find a way to escape. For long time, I painted ‘without telling anyone, and I found my freedom 1. In desperate situations, in the act of colour. Let them yell at me, hit me, Ill me, and 1 think: Okay, but I can paint. It was an act of survival. I even managed to escape from hell, . hell... remember... the police eaught up ‘with me and brought me home. Ie was guaranteed humiliation, Ridicule. Shame, "So, we an away from home?” Even the two cops gota bit carried away. “You're our eleventh runaway in five days.” “You guys are really amazing.” T replied We arrived at the door to the apartment. One of, them wanted to rg the bell, I motioned not to bother, Thad my key. A birthday present. Topened the door. The police left, the door closed behind ‘me, and that was that, They were all standing in the hallway. The whole family. They were looking, at me, Led by the woman withthe long blond hair. Up until chen, Thad hoped that things would work out or at least, that 14 finally understand what it all meant, No such luck, Nothing’ Blank faces, It is hopeless. They were looking at me, mother father sister brother, and I knew that something was taking its course. A human sacrifice had taken place... someone was dying, something like a slit throat, and I could already taste my own blood in the back of my mouth. But even then, in the midst ofthis humiliation, I'd found a hidden door. silence. Maya had helped me understand that Thad the right to say nothing, that silence was our realm, a realm ‘where, for years, she had reigned like a magnificent princess, and now that realm had been turned over tome, since Maya, by speaking, had made it mine, Silence vas immense, I hadnt finished discovering It Ittold me not to worry about the woman with the long blond hair. By catching me, they had caught what they knew about me. What they knew about me, But the rest the tiny part that exists for us to believe in, is constantly unfolding, as beautiful as the colours of dawn. Silence was etermal "Go to bed. You have school tomorrow” ‘Those were the only words spoken, and no one ever mentioned my running away, or anything about that adventure that had been the great divide, the thing that allowed me to tear myself away from the ugliness ofthe world they were trying to lead me into, Over the years, silence has turned into the an- ‘ry colours smeared onto the canvases when I lose my bearings. Paintings where I've tried to recreate the shape of faces loved and lost, their poetry and their anger and their sorrows, hundreds of paintings ‘WADI MOUAWAD: ‘where blank spaces came to life in explosions of a thousand blues, making the adventure of beauty a de- scent into the heat ofthe violence and the blakness of everything that had made my existence boring Years went by. “What are you doing with your lif, Wahab?” “painting, Mama.” “No, Your profession.” “arm going to paint. Become a painter.” “what kind of nonsense is that?” ‘tes not nonsense, Mother. Portraits” “portraits? What portraits? What are you talking about? Portraits of what?” “ofyou, .. your face... to remind me... oT don't forget you ...'m going to paint.” ‘The end of the world, How could she have under- stood that I was offering her a kind of reconciliation? {A space where we could come together... Instead, it was as f Thad run away again. But this time, no one could catch me. There are no policemen power fal enough to lead those who have been swept way by the tumultuous tide of existence and thrown into ‘the whirlpools of painting, back to reassuring profes: sions. There was nothing tobe done about, nothing. ‘AwoMp EN THE HEART How to go on from here? mean where do we go from here? We have no choice. Last straight line ‘'m still playing the plano, Softly. No noise, Note after note, My brother appears. The present is lord and master. It takes revenge. ‘Wahab, come. The time has come.” ‘Those were his very words. Come, The time has come, His words, I'm not making it up. He leaves. ‘Without ws thing, I forget where I'm going. I follow him. Step by step. Fog, I'm back in the little room. I don't re- member entering. I'm standing, with the door at my left and Nidal at my right, Both of us leaning against the wall, The whole family Is there, even a cousin or two have arrived. Only the nurse i sitting on the bed. My sister, looking lst, is holding the lft hand of the wonian with the long blond hate, and the fat cow keeps screaming: “Marlamme, Mariamme, we ing. Okay. I follow him. I can't see a are here with you.” Yes. You bet we're here with her. She's dying, and _you'e going to stuf yourself with duck confit atthe dinner after the funeral. We are with her, for sure, you first inline, stupid bitch, But T dot say a thing. "The woman with the long blond hair is dying, The ‘nurse is walting. The fat cow mooing “'Mariamme, Mariamme “The nurse cant take it anymore “pe quiet, madam! She needs to be alone to diet” SShe shut up, Everyone did, Only the loud exhal- Ing... but the death ratte is another kind of silence. ook at my mother’s belly rising and falling for the very last times of her short existence. Tlook at her belly. Not so very long ago, Iwas in there. She car- ried me and gave birth to me, letting out the same ‘ries that death is now tearing from her guts, and fora moment I become one with death. Ian see her dying, I an see her Belly dying, Nothing can take sme back inside there again. That is ancient history ‘now. fel that in witnessing ber death Tam witness- Ing my own birth, Stop! It's happening. My mother is dying, Her face twists, her muscles tense. She's going to let go of the branch. Her head falls to one side, towards the door, towards my brother and me. ‘snow IV THE HEART She breathes her last breath, the very last that drags on until bit of black blood runs from her mouth, like the disgust she fels for this life of cares, cries and sorrows ,.. That’ it We wait for the next halation, No, Nothing, No more air. Frozen, Statue. ‘That’ It, She is silent, : “The page has been turned, The end of her life. Period. “The cover ofthe book closes, soon the cover of her coffin on her forgotten face. The record of her exist- cence finished, Ilook up. I don't know why. To look. away, Tsee the tne above me. “The clock inthe room says exactly seven o'clock. Tate gave her the meagre git of dying on the hou. Silence. Silence, Silence. Everyone remains silent. ‘No more tears, No more sobs. Death, I lok at them. ‘They ae staring atthe dead body. Lean hear a voice roaring inside them: "I don't want to die ike that.” Fear as shut them up. Good. One thing's for sure, this state of general dignity that has come over the group can last ina family ike tis. The natural urge takes over. Bverythng falls apart, Here we go again Bveryone's emotional And since the deceased is dead, no one holds back, Fuck, They're not crying, they're ‘ot even screaming. They're braying. They lift up ‘their heads and choke on thelr walling. I'm beginning tw envy the dead woman, She can't hear them any more, Only Nidal turns his tears into pearls of silence. Leaning against me, he is crying over his mother's ath. {feel is pain, I glance at Nawal. She loks like those athletes trying to catch their breath after run- ning a hundred metres, Hook at her. She is beautiful Inher exhaustion. Ofal of us, she is clearly the one who deserves the medal. he isnt crying. My father isnt exying. He’ seen this scene on Tv oo often. Like ‘me. I'm not crying. 'm shooting a movie. I'm think {ng this would make a beautiful begining fra film, But once again, Iam no ones hero. Lam not erying. ‘The others are doing it for me. The nurse finally asks ‘sto leave the room. She as clean the dead womans body, wipe avay the blood, close her eyes and place her arms ina suitable postion. That's how its done, Death has requirements that regulate efusiveness ‘The murse closes the door to the room. We are all standing In the hallway, under the Christmas deco- rations. Absurdity cant kill you Pathetic outbursts, artificial tears. Nawal comes over to me. vhat do you want to do, Wahab?” ‘Ym going to leave. I'm hanging my paintings to- night. My exhibition opens in ten days. I've found ny last painting” “Do you need some money?” “No, Ym fine” 'Do you need anything?” “1 be really happy if you came to my vernissage, Naval.” She understands. She gives me a kiss. I go to leave, My coat. Wheres my coat? Fuck! shit ‘Who could have known? It always happens when you leastexpect it You cant decide when something's | ‘going to end, You can ty, but tough shit twill al- ‘ways outsmart you. You don't know when a painting Is finished, and suddenly, is finished. An event. ‘You're about to add a touch of pale aquamarine, or Florentine mauve, the brush is poised, you turn 10 look out the window, you look back at the can- vas, and there itis. The painting was finished. An event. Forget your outlines, your ideas, your struc- ‘ture... Forget your colours. Really: Tha’ it, that’s all. 1eescapes you, Like right now. I thought I had finished. Iwas leaving, Ikissed my sister and I was leaving, Shit, Because of detail. ne detail... 2 cost ‘Whats a coat? ..s winter outside The cold. The snowstorm. I could leave without it.I could... but lt must bea sign, Obviously. Stay calm. There’ still hope. Maybe I left it somewhere else ike the wait lng room... 1 stupéd. I'm trying to buy time. Ie lear. I know very well where my coats. 1's in the ‘dead woman's room, on the litle chale atthe foot of ‘the bed, where no one wanted to sit Shit. The door tothe rom s closed. imagine a coat standing watch lover the body of the woman with the long blond hair. Whats a body? A costume with no one inside, A BOMB IN THE HEART ‘A costume standing watch over a costume. No son, ‘no mother, Only thele clothes. ‘There's no way of knowing, No way. I was leaving. Kissed my sister and I was leaving. Shit Either Igo in there now, or I goin there later. Fither I get killed snow, or Iget killed later, But theres no running away ‘this time. Thave to face the music. There's no way of ‘knowing. No way. The others are chatting. Noise. 1 cant understand a thing. A distant murmur. A dull dhum at the most, I walk over to the door. Infinity ‘within reach. With abit of luck, the nurse will stl be there. Nobody notices me, even though wer all clustered together. I'm surprised at first that no one went back in, but we're all the same, no one here ‘wants to go back inside alone, Okay. open the door. 1 goin, I dose the door. The nurse has gone, The body Ising flat onthe bed, I don't look ati, but is pres ence permeates me. head for my coat. I look at the wall. The dead woman is behind me. Fora moment, imagine that she might sit up In her bed and T want todie. A fush of volcanic heat rises to my head and

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