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tahar ben jalloun
prostate; nothing else.
Don’t worry!” I take in the
information and I say nothing.
Disciplined and confident
overall, I prepare to live a
year “without”. I obsess
over this absence even if I
am persuaded that it’s not
permanent. I live with a
loss. No, loss is too strong
of a word; however, there is
something dead in this story;
not only sex, but also certain
habits and attitudes. Without
a prostate, you put yourself to
the side, in an eternal waiting
room where you can ignore
what you are waiting for and
for as long as you need. Put
to the side, disposed, placed
in authority and, like an
unclaimed package, at the end
of a year and a day, they get
rid of you. You see yourself
seated on a bench under a
pale light and you watch the
sun that is so proper you
say to yourself there aren’t
even ants by which you could
follow the back and forth.
No, the sun has been cleaned
several times a day. It shines.
It is impeccable. It smells of
cleanser. Then they imagine
you on another bench in a
garden. It ’s cold outside.
People pass without looking at
you; each one vacant of their
destiny. Your own destiny has
something strange. You say
to yourself, inevitably: “Why
me? What have I done wrong
in my life to deserve this? Is it
divine or human punishment?
Is it the vengeance of a certain
woman that I did not truly
love? Why do I feel guilty?
After all, I didn’t do anything
wrong…” It’s stupid, but it’s
human.
I look around me. Athletes in
good shape pass by in a rush.
They stink of good health. I
don’t want to be like them. I