The House Without Roots

by Andrée Chédid

XV

From all the inner most recesses of shadow, from all the shores of summer, from the depths of all sadness, from the edges of all smiles, from the corners of absence, from all the deserts, from all the skies, Nouza never ceases to appear at the crossroads of my life, arms open to receive me.

*

As I enter the gaming room, my grandmother sits up, lets her cards fall, and, at the risk of losing the hand, kisses me:

-- I missed you, Kalya. You did well to come.

*

Certain Sundays, when I leave the boarding school and her car, driven by Omar, comes to find me, I slide the sunroof open and regard the city of Cairo standing on the seat, despite Anaïs’ protestations:

-- You are swallowing all the dust. You will make yourself sick!

The avenue winds along far from the mysterious alleys that I can make out behind us but that Omar will never take. We rub shoulders with the tramway going back up to Heliopolis with its crush of passengers; their tangled bodies overflow the doors and windows, congregate on the roofs.

Further along, we reach the Place de la Gare already packed with cars and carts, some drawn by donkeys, others pushed by men’s hands. A procession of camels inches its way through the mass of pedestrians. The jerky gestures of a policeman, clothed in white, break off suddenly; lowering his arms, he gives up trying to govern the traffic, removes his red fez and mops abundantly at forehead and neck, grumbling.

I read the time on the Great Clock, we are still far from the lunch hour at my grandmother’s house, where I am hosted once a month. I recognize the ‘departure platform,’ its perpetual come-and-go. We crossed it five times together, Nouza and I, to go on holiday in Alexandria, Lebanon, or to distant countries.

In the car, we border the Nile. Chest leaning outside, I contemplate it with its eternal feluccas sailing up and down. I feast my eyes on it, repeat to myself that it is the "river of all rivers," promise myself to guard the memory of it through all the countrysides of my life.

Then, Anaïs and Omar take me for a walk in the garden of Grottoes with its aquariums and rockwork; or otherwise to the Zoological Gardens.

After the visit to the hippopotamus, "Sayeda Zeinab," whose bulbous flesh, contrasting with her tiny, lively eyes and thin ears, fills me with joy, I head for the orangutan’s cage.

I could contemplate him for hours. His eyes fix me with an utter melancholy, I never leave this encounter unscathed. I have the impression that the animal searches to communicate to me his speech, cruelly imprisoned in an opaque flesh, and that, if I listen closely enough, this speech would reach me.

*

A joyful and mocking band of children presses around the automobile, caressing with their sticky hands the glittering wings that Omar cleans and polishes every morning with his chamois cloth.

They welcome us with praises and claim their charity. One of them greets me through the windshield, another plays with the wiper, a third sticks out his tongue in the rear-view mirror. The little girls amuse themselves by strutting about, by laughing at their reflections in the hub cabs.

With flicks of a fly-swatter, Omar scatters them. I try in vain to hold back his arm. Anaïs pushes me into the interior of the car.

Embarrassed of myself, I sit clumsily on the edge of the seat. A lame boy, blind in one eye, taps against the window, offers me a dahlia with one hand and stretches out the other:

-- Baksheesh!

I have no bag, my pockets are empty. Not even a bonbon.

-- Give. Give something to him, Anaïs.

-- Why to this one and not the others? You will set off fights even before we are gone.

The car starts.

We enter the residential quarter a little while later, far from the pulsation and misery of the enormous city that shudders, swarms and struggles in the distance.

*

Loaded with painful images, I run towards Nouza and curl up in her silky clothes.

-- If you knew, grandmother.

-- I know, I know. But what can we do?

-- If you could have seen!

-- It means dedicating your whole life to them, you understand, your whole life. If not, what purpose does it serve? A drop of water in the sea! You should speak of it with your grandfather Nicolas.

*

For all my six years, for all my seven years, my nine years, ten, twelve, I ran towards Nouza who always welcomed me, and spoiled me at each celebration.

Tender, stubborn Nouza, so delicate and so strong. My capricious and frivolous grandmother, ardent and indomitable. My fresh, my free Nouza. My river, my rock.

20

Mario had just parked his car in a near-by garage and was ready to return home. After a crazy three-day undertaking, he had finally obtained Georges’ freedom. He would rejoin him later the next morning.

At the garage exit, seeing the ambulance pass, he never suspected that Myriam, his own daughter, was inside.

Emerging in the square, he saw, astonishingly, Kalya at the edge of a gutter, leaning forward, arms open. In the same instant, he recognized Sybil running towards her at full tilt. What were they doing outside at such an hour? What game were they playing?

And Slimane? Why did he advance slowly, drawn up to his full height?

-- I found Georges again!

Mario cries to the one, to the other. Do they hear him? They have eyes for no one but the little girl who rushes forward as fast as her legs can carry her.

The image captivates him in its turn. Mario takes such pleasure in watching this beautiful child, marveling at her great strides, the lightness of her arms, the vigor of her entire being, the flood of her hair that he does not hear the deafening whistle of the bullet. In mid-flight, it hits her just between the shoulder blades.

Sybil tears along still, as though she too had failed to notice it.

She runs. She continues to advance, lasting for several seconds more. Then she collapses. All at once.

The Sudanese dashes forward. In his haste, the tortoise escapes from his hands, falls on its back and bounces several times on the ground.

Slimane has just reached the child. He kneels down, he picks her up and, gathering all his forces, draws himself up again, holding her in his arms. Standing, blind to all which surrounds him, he raises a questioning gaze to the heavens.

Suddenly, no longer staring, he begins to revolve, to twirl in place. Faster and faster like a whirling dervish. Enclosed within his fever, he twirls, twirls, unable to stop.

A lullaby which comes from the depths of his childhood and the lands of the Nile pierces sorrow and mists, rises again to his lips. Only thus he slows down. One turn after the other, more and more gently.

Slimane’s words mingle with those of the old song. His speech links together the history of the river--with its depths, its cataracts, its delta--to that of the mysteries of life. The voice of the Sudanese catches, crumbles; then, little by little, swells:

Water goes water comes

from upstream to downstream

She takes away from the sources

And the mouths of the night

She speaks swamps

Moves suns and mud

She overflows with new floods

Devours the breath of seas

From upstream to downstream

water goes water comes

She is dry like the famine

And more tender than the heart.

Slimane no longer moves. He is very calm, complete in his melody. He sings for the tranquil child who seems to sleep. This child from far away. From far, from so far, just like him...

A volley of buckshot riddles him in his turn, interrupting the song.