Trafika Europe 6 - Arabesque

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

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