68 292
68
tahar ben jalloun
a newspaper article upside
down. “Marine Le Pen could
come back for a second tour.”
A photo put an image to the
words: Marine in the arms
of her father. Surprisingly,
I asked myself: Who is this
woman? Certainly I knewwho
she was, but this morning,
she seemed strange, like an
intrusion on my life. With
my right foot, I pushed away
the paper. My eyes focus on
a book. I strain to see the
title,
Out with the Phantom
,
by Philip Roth. It was a gift
from Professor J.F.
The telephone rang on the
other side of the apartment.
The more it rang, the more
I felt that I was incapable
of getting out of bed. Who
could be calling at this hour?
Besides my kids, I didn’t know
who could have neededme on
that morning. My sick leave
prolonged. My research at
the office was at a standstill.
One day, I would have to pick
it back up. Mathematicians
are stubborn. I learned to
drown in their mystery. One
of my professors once told
me: “Mathematics is like
philosophy or poetry; each
word should be in its proper
place.” I know. I already said
it. I repeat myself.
Nothing else affected me. I
felt distanced from math and
poetry. I was in the process of
becoming illiterate. Words,
one af ter the other, lef t
me. They went elsewhere.
I had no control over them.
I searched for some. I
stumbled over others; then,
I would second guess myself.
My language impoverished
so quickly. Ruthless. They
say that people empty
themselves of their blood
during depression; but me, I
emptied myself of my words.