Trafika Europe 6 - Arabesque

najat el hachmi

by stem, making a bunch in my hand, snipping off the stalk ends that had gone brown where they’d been cut, placing the perfect bunch under the tap and energetically shaking off the water into the sink. From the kitchen I could hear the ladies chattering, the ancient litany they repeated whenever they met. Clasping hands they held under their chins as they kissed. One cheek, then the other, and another and another, every cheek that was there. The loud kisses our women gave, infinite if they’d not seen each other for a long time, truncated when encounters were more frequent, but always repeated, bounced off cheeks, lips smacking against cheeks or in the air as they rehearsed their polite formulas with each movement that, not knowing how, the two kissers alternated without

stumbling, never allowing the slightest space for silence: how are you? Labas? Mlih? How’s the family? How’s your health? And so on and so forth. In fact, they are all questions that in the end lead to the single response that covers every possible response: thanks to God. Alhamdu li Allah. Everything is fine because everything depends on the will of God. So why waste so much time asking those questions? Why the vacuous, pointless litany? In that sense I’ve always been a poor giver of greetings. I don’t give the stock reply, I take the lady’s hand, give the minimal kisses her frantic to- and-fro will allow and struggle to ask how she is. Worst of all, I’m incapable of giving thanks to God, thanks for what? Who is God? Where is he? How do you know he exists? Don’t you

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