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tahar ben jalloun
My friend, Professor J.F.,
called me every evening. He
asked me regularly to eat
at his place or to go see a
play together. I knew he was
worried, especially about my
depression. One evening, he
himself felt depressed. He
wasn’t happy with his wife.
He frequently told me about
his desire to leave her. She
treated him badly in public
and yelled at him for the
littlest things. He would box
it up and lower his head.
He confessed to me that he
had had one of his patient ’s
suicide pressing on his
conscience. It was his wife’s
cousin. After undergoing the
same operation as me, he was
unable to push through the
dark moments that happen
during recovery. He threw
himself into the Seine. While
telling me this, Professor J.F.
was still emotional. He did not
understand why he was still
feeling guilty, a real weight
on his shoulders, he told me.
To calm him down a bit, I
told him I had never thought
about suicide because I was
persuaded that my potency
would come back. It was just
a matter of time and some
patience. The opposite to
what I was actually thinking
in that moment.
I would regularly pass my
evenings seated in front
of the mirror so I could
interrogate myself about
my current state of mind.
Out of nowhere, it was all
done. Never again would I
be able to, as some people
informally say, intimately
know a woman. Ah, the
scream of a woman in
pleasure who begs for more!
Some women shout, others
unleash themselves, others
cling with all of their might