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tahar ben jalloun
Nothing happens.
My mother always told me
this when she didn’t feel
wel l: “Some rubble has
fallen on me. I am covered
in dust…” Like her, I feel
covered with rocks and
sand. Heavy rocks are on my
shoulder and my neck; alas,
the reason I was unable to
get up earlier. How do I get
rid of this weight? How do
I liberate myself and move
on to something else? I see
my penis reduced to a hole
only there for urination. No
sensation. Not the slightest
result. Raising my eyes, I
focus on a reproduction of
“The Turkish Baths.” The
eroticism in this image really
appeared to me for the first
time. The painting no longer
interests me. My eyes are
tired. I extend my hand as if
searching for help or support
to pull me away from there. I
desire nothing, neither food
nor coffee. I am sleeping but
my eyes are open. Tiring.
It ’s been two hours since I
last moved. This has never
happened to me before. I
think about Catherine. I miss
her terribly. If she were here,
I would not be in this state.
Emptiness, nothingness, an
imaginary wind. I smell bad.
If I could shower in this spot,
it would do me good. No. I
need to get up. I slide off the
bed and fall to the ground, my
head laying in a newspaper. I
succeed at standing upright
and I painfully advance to the
bathroom. Tears streamdown
my checks. It is impossible to
stop them. I fear falling down
and breaking my arm or my
hip. I am not old enough to
do that. Yet, my legs aren’t
carrying me well. Everything
in me is shaky. I finally turn
on the shower; the water